Highly Improbable
by AGirloftheSouth
Summary: AU - John Watson a genius, world renowned doctor meets Sherlock Holmes an average, ambitious police officer. A retelling of A Study in Pink.
1. The First Meeting

A/N – I'm posting this on the one year anniversary of my first Sherlock fan fiction so I insist that you be nice. ;) This is the first straight up AU that I've ever done so be patient with me please. Thanks Scopes for the idea and the pep talks.

Warnings – This is an AU; if that isn't your thing move on. This will eventually have a romantic relationship between two men; if that isn't your thing move on. Please do not send me reviews or PMs that this is an AU or that you are offended by slash or cuss words. Consider yourself warned.

Summary – John Watson a genius and world renowned doctor meets Sherlock Holmes an average, but ambitious, police officer. Based loosely on A Study in Pink.

Disclaimer – I own very little, and these characters are not on the list.

* * *

Highly Improbable

"You do know that this is insane, right? I can't believe that you're going through with it!" Mike Stamford complained from the doorway as John put the contents of his desk into one of the boxes. "You're the best - _the best_ - thoracic surgeon in the country. You're one of the best in the world!" John started shaking his head putting a collection of awards into the box. "You _are_," Stamford emphasized, sighing before he continued. "You've helped alter the treatment regimen for thousands of returning soldiers. You've improved the same number of lives, easily. And now you're just going to walk away from that to play G.I. Joe?"

John rolled his eyes and dropped his certificate from Bart's into the box. For the first time in his life it wouldn't mean anything. It wouldn't mean a single thing in the deserts of Afghanistan.

He found the idea thrilling.

"What's the ultimate goal in what we do, Mike? Why are we here?" Stamford shook his head and John stopped packing to stare at him. "My goal is to make life easier for those men and women - hell kids, Mike, some of them are kids. They're being sent across the world and coming home in pieces. If we can heal them physically, maybe we can make the rest of it easier for them, too."

Stamford nodded and looked at the collection of the 'thank you' cards and pictures lining one side of John's office. John followed his eyes and smiled at them.

"You're going into a war, John. A war. Do you really understand that?"

"I do," John said. "I've seen the pictures; I've heard the stories. My grandfather was in the Navy. I've seen what it does to people, Mike. I've removed shrapnel and repaired lungs. It isn't going to be pretty. I know that. I also know that the sooner they get good medical care, the better. It'll be easier for them in the long run. Not that the RAMC isn't competent, but their objective is different than mine. I might not learn anything useful and I might not teach them a single thing, but if I save one leg, or arm, or especially a life, then it's worth it. Everyone here can do what I do, so it's time for me to do something new."

Stamford sighed again and ran his finger over a few of the pictures before he picked one up. John smiled as he continued to clear his desk. "This is absolute insanity, John. Absolute insanity." He paused. "But let me help you pack so we can get to the club for your going away party."

John chuckled. "It's supposed to be a surprise, Mike?" Stamford turned around and dumped the pictures and cards in the box.

"Surprising John Watson is like trying to outrun death: there's absolutely no point." He turned back around and started picking up the second group.

John watched him for a moment, smiling, before glancing out of the window. In the distance, the Eye was already glowing blue in the evening light. The sun was setting over London and the sky was lit with a collection of pinks and purples. It was beautiful and he knew he was going to miss it. Hell, he missed London when he was working in Birmingham. He missed London when he got dragged to family functions at his sister's country estate - Clara's country estate to be more precise. His soul was in this city and a part of him felt like he was abandoning it.

He'd be back though. And if all went according to plan, the lives for a lot of returning men and women would be a hell of a lot better. That would mean more research money in a field that was getting more and more competitive. Britain was – shamefully – behind countries like the US, China, Japan, and Canada in this regard. Too many committees, he always said. Other countries got out there and did it. His country held a committee first. He hated committees and meetings. Medicine was doing, acting, decision making, not voting and discussing.

He wanted to make a difference. And he felt like he could in Afghanistan.

John took a deep breath, admiring his view one last time, even if he returned to the private sector when he returned he'd never work in this office again. He'd never again drink his coffee sitting in this chair and watching the early morning boats move along the Thames. It saddened him but life was about moving forward not looking backwards. He'd done all he could here.

He watched for just another second before turning back to his desk and opening the next drawer.

* * *

"What on earth are you wearing?" Mycroft asked as he climbed out of his car. Sherlock was learning against a bin in front of the club, waiting for him.

Sherlock looked down at the suit he'd picked up at the Marks and Spencer just yesterday and shook his head. "A suit," he said and he felt more than saw his brother's eye roll. It was a little short in the limbs, but it was cheap and chances are it would get ruined like the last one. He'd spent good money on his previous suit – it had been hand sewn and made of silk. And then the second time he wore it red paint was thrown all over it by a forger trying to push fake Picassos onto the market.

"I need a favor," Sherlock said, falling into step next to Mycroft. They were headed into the exclusive Pemberton Club – to which Sherlock wasn't a member. He started digging in his pocket for his badge; surely being with the Yard would at least get him in the front door.

"You're with me," Mycroft sighed. "They'll let you in, even if you're dressed like the homeless." Sherlock looked down at his suit again. It wasn't that bad. They walked up the stone steps and the giant oak doors opened before they reached the top landing. A man dressed in white tie, with tails and white gloves, answered the door and did not speak. Mycroft breezed past him and the man tipped his head slightly as Sherlock followed his brother. Sherlock had never actually been inside before.

"What's the favor?" Mycroft asked as they descended a set of dark wood stairs and entered a dressing room. Sherlock frowned; none of the individual cabinets had locks. It seemed odd to him that all these men allowed their belongings to just sit behind these unsecured doors.

"It's the Pemberton, Sherlock, no one is going to steal anything." Sherlock looked back up at Mycroft as he pulled his coat off and hung it behind a door that said Holmes. His umbrella was also set inside before he closed it and turned back to Sherlock. "The favor?" he prompted again, pulling his cuffs out from underneath his jacket.

He wasn't wearing a tuxedo which surprised Sherlock, but the suit was one of his nicer ones. The slightly brown tint in the grey hue made Mycroft's coloring appear yellow in this lighting and Sherlock found the sight amusing. He didn't comment though – he wouldn't get what he needed from Mycroft if he pointed that out.

"What is this event?" Sherlock asked, looking around the small changing room as if would provide some clue.

"One of the club's members is leaving his lucrative medical research career to go and serve with the RAMC in Afghanistan. We're throwing him a farewell party."

"Interesting career move," Sherlock said.

"Some would call it admirable. He's spent years trying to improve the lives of injured veterans and feels that he's done all that he can here. He wants to spend time in the field hospital at Bastion and learn even more."

"I'm sure he will increase his research funding as a result–"

"Do you always have to be such a cynic?" Mycroft snapped and Sherlock could tell he was growing impatient. "He's a genuinely good man, doing genuinely good work. If the end result is more research funding, I'm certain that he will use it to accomplish more. His level of integrity is almost alarming at times, if I'm being honest."

Sherlock nodded, letting his eyes dart around the room again. He recognized several of the names on the doors. There were a handful of peers and a few of the more prestigious celebrities. The whole place turned his stomach slightly. So much money going to so much waste.

"The favor?" Mycroft repeated and Sherlock nodded.

"Lestrade is working on a case. A woman found burned to death in her garage, but nothing around her was burned." Mycroft nodded, Sherlock would know he was familiar with the case. It had been all over the news. "I need the woman's file, all the information you have on her."

Mycroft was shaking his head before Sherlock finished. "You're not on D.I. Lestrade's team – you're not even on the Murder Investigation Team. They haven't requested any information from us, so why would I give it to you? I have tried repeatedly to explain to you that you're on the right path at the Yard. If you want to move–"

"I have a theory about how she might have died," Sherlock interrupted and Mycroft shrugged his shoulders.

"It's not your concern and interfering with someone else's investigation will not win you any friends. You wanted out of Art and Antiques because you felt it was boring, which I fail to understand, but I pulled strings and–"

"Had me moved to Financial Investigation? Were you under the impression that it would be more stimulating? I spend my days looking over page after page of stock transactions and talking to forensic accountants. I want to investigate murders, Mycroft, actual crimes, and you are in my way."

Mycroft sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "You're supposed to be investigating Shad Sanderson. Exposing their irregularities will get you noticed by the correct–"

"I don't care about advancement! I didn't become a police officer to sit in an office!"

Mycroft eyed him for a moment and Sherlock could see the judgment there, the condescension. Their discussion was over. "You know nothing of politics, little brother. Come and I'll walk you out. I'll consider your request and get back with you tomorrow." Sherlock stood still for a moment, not appreciating being dismissed. But Mycroft had not outright refused him, so he might still be able to get the file.

Sherlock turned and exited the changing room. Laughter greeted him as he climbed the wood stairs, and he entered the main hall to seem a small group of men standing in the corner. Each of them was impeccable dressed and seemed comfortable in the hallowed walls. He didn't recognize any of them but had an immediate dislike for them as a whole.

"Ah," Mycroft said, walking passed him and up to the men. "The man of the hour." A thin man with dark blonde hair and warm blue eyes turned and smiled at Mycroft.

"Mycroft," he said, shaking his hand. Sherlock moved to stand next to his brother, pointedly waiting to be introduced. He could feel the eyes of the other men in the group roving over him. They were judging him and his cheap suit. He felt suddenly self-conscious and wondered if he should just leave, but Mycroft spoke, stopping Sherlock's escape.

"Doctor John Watson, may I introduce my brother, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, meet renowned surgeon and medical researcher, Doctor John Watson. He's leaving us for Afghanistan in a few days so we're giving him a proper send off."

Sherlock met the doctor's eyes and was surprised that they did not wander over him. There was no judgment or distaste at Sherlock's presence. The doctor maintained his easy smile, appearing genuinely pleased to meet Sherlock. They shook hands and the doctor's grip was sure, but not tight. Sherlock smiled back and felt a sense of admiration for the smaller man.

"Pleasure to meet you," John said. "You work at Scotland Yard, don't you? I remember hearing something about Mycroft's brother at the Yard."

"Yes," Sherlock replied. John nodded and Sherlock didn't feel any of the distaste at his career choice that Mycroft's friends usually seemed to have. It surprised him.

"Will you be joining us for dinner?" John asked.

"No," Mycroft answered on Sherlock's behalf. "He's working on a case and I'm providing him with some information. I was just verifying exactly what he needed." Sherlock felt momentarily triumphant – perhaps he would invade Mycroft's social circles more often. It seemed to get him what he wanted.

Mycroft turned to face him. "If you head to my office, Sherlock, you'll find that Anthea has compiled everything that you need." Sherlock nodded to his brother and then looked back at the group of strangers and Doctor John Watson.

"Do have a safe tour in Afghanistan, Doctor. My brother says you're doing admirable work. I hope you find success."

"Thank you," Watson and Sherlock could see that he was genuinely pleased at the well wishes.

"Have a lovely evening, gentleman," Sherlock said to the rest of the group before heading towards the door.


	2. Afghanistan

"Doctor Watson, listen…"

John started to shake his head and the general's words trailed off. The old man sighed from behind his desk and looked towards the window.

"I need to see what it's like," John insisted. "I need to understand what the situation's like out there for the medics."

"You've done enough," the general said, glancing back at John before looking towards the paperwork in front of him. "None of us – and let me repeat that – _none_ of us wanted you to come here. Bad enough having another civilian running around my base, especially some hot shot doctor who was being sent in to evaluate our medical practices."

John opened his mouth but General Tompkins raised his hand.

"Now," He held up a stack of papers and shook them at John before letting them drop back onto his desk. "I have report after report about what an excellent doctor you are. What an excellent addition to the medical staff you are. My doctors absolutely love you. And I understand why. We all know that the RAMC needs to make some changes – not that they weren't good at what they were doing – but nobody was satisfied with the casualty numbers. And you've improved that. I've watched you work with all the doctors – including the Yanks. You've made our hospital run better, you've saved more lives that I can even count, and you've got all of our junior doctors on a path to advancement."

John nodded. That wasn't the point though. He wasn't done here.

"You're an amazing doctor. I imagine that you've heard that several times in your life. But you are _not_ a soldier. Those men in the field – even the medics – are soldiers first. They've had the training but you - do you even know how to fire a gun, Doctor Watson?"

John nodded. "I had to go through basic training before they allowed me to come here. Truthfully, I became quite the marksman; it isn't much more than basic mathematics." The general shook his head and mumbled something under his breath. John couldn't quite make it out. It didn't matter really. What mattered was getting permission to go to the field, to visit the front line. He had to see the medics.

"I'm concerned, Doctor, that you don't want to do this for the reasons that you've laid out to me."

John sat back in his chair, pushing down his immediate retort. The general wasn't someone who responded well to posturing. Tompkins eyed him up and down, looking for something. John physically relaxed every muscle in his body and prepared to wait. They both knew that John was the smarter of the two of them, just like they both knew if John really wanted to be an ass he could just make a phone call and the general would get orders to send him out. John didn't want to have to do that though. He liked Bastion and wanted to feel comfortable here for the rest of his stay.

"I've seen it before in civilians – hell even in some of the soldiers. You like it here. You like the adrenaline. I've no doubt that you want to help people but we both know that you don't have to go to the field to do that. You know what happens to them out there. You've see the patch up jobs, the tourniquets, t-shirts shoved into wounds. You know what it's like. I think you also have a pretty good idea that there isn't much you can do to change that. Of course we could send doctors into the field, but what happens when they all get shot? Who fixes the doctors? This is, unfortunately, a war, Doctor Watson, and war and medicine are polar opposites. You'll never be able to completely reconcile them."

John watched the general for a moment, his words hanging between them. They hit a chord with John but he certainly wasn't going to admit that. He wanted to go to the field. His reasoning fundamentally didn't matter. His job here was to evaluate and offer suggestions to how to improve the medical situation at Bastion. He wouldn't have a complete picture of it if he didn't experience the source of most of the injuries. Besides, there had been no fighting from the insurgents for several days. Intelligence indicated that they were in the process of relocating. Now was the perfect time for him to go.

"General," John started, leaning forward slightly. "I appreciate all the kind things you just said about my performance here. But I came here to make this process better. I came here to help save the lives of your soldiers. I know that means more to you than anything else. I _am_ good at this. I know you know that. Please let me get the last piece of the puzzle. It can be as long or as short a period of time as you like. And it can be whenever you like. I still have six months here and plenty of work to do at the hospital. I need to do this though. Please consider it."

Tompkins watched him for another moment. He'd expected John to play the trump card. He'd expected the big names to be dropped. John had surprised him. And the doctor knew that worked in his favor.

The general looked away again before meeting John's eyes. The doctor saw the answer there and pushed down the grin that threatened to spread across his face. He didn't want the general to think he'd been manipulated or that John considered it a victory.

Tompkins finally sighed and flattened his hand on top of the stack of papers. "Fine, if you insist. It will take several days to figure out which unit is safest. I will let you know when we have a definite plan. I will, however, not allow you to spend more than one twenty-four hour period there. This is not a game, Doctor. I won't let you to become one of the patients you're working so hard to save."

* * *

John didn't know which was louder: the thumping of his heart or the helicopter blades. He glanced at the two sergeants in the front – one of them piloting, the other with an assault rifle pointed out of the window. John knew he should be terrified, but he wasn't. He pulled away from himself and studied the emotion and wasn't surprised to realize that it was excitement. He wouldn't lie to himself and pretend it was because he was going to learn about the life of an Army field medic. It was the prospect of everything else that he might experience.

He thought back to his adolescence and his time at Bart's. He remembered all the times Harry had made fun of him because he liked to read and had done so well in school. He remembered all the times when he was different, all the times when he couldn't participate. He smiled to himself as the helicopter banked right and he saw the camp. He never thought he'd ever do anything like this.

There was a man on the ground waving his arms. John had no idea what that meant but the two men up front seemed to decipher it and adjusted the helicopter accordingly. The group was larger than John expected and there didn't seem to be nearly enough tents for all of them. He hadn't asked for one, assuming that there would be some place for him to sleep. He shook the thought away. He was only here for twenty-four hours; he'd been awake longer than that before.

The helicopter circled again before slowly easing down on the east side of the camp. John eyed huge hills to the North and wondered why they'd choose to settle at this slightly higher elevation.

When the motor turned off, John moved to open the door.

"Wait," the pilot said and John stilled, his hand on the handle. The sergeant with a gun climbed out and aimed at the hills. A matter of seconds later there were three other men aiming in the same direction and the pilot gestured to John to climb out the opposite side of the helicopter.

"We'll be back this time tomorrow, Dr. Watson. I hope that you enjoy your stay." John noticed the sarcasm but just offered a quiet thanks and climbed out. He heard the shuffling of the men with guns but walked towards the only other person there, a tall lanky man with mousy brown hair that seemed way too long to meet military standards and who was wearing dark sunglasses that seemed to reflect none of the desert sun.

"Lieutenant Murray," the man said, holding his hand out to John. John took it and noticed that the lieutenant's stance was far from the strict military style he was used to at Bastion. "I'm the chief medic here, a nurse by trade. Welcome."

"Thank you," John said and followed Murray as he turned and headed towards the tents.

"I'm sorry for all the weaponry," Murray gestured back to the helicopter and John saw the men who'd greeted them with guns still aiming as the blades started to turn again. Clearly they were keeping guard until it took off. "We've been clear for days now but after we got the call you were coming some men out on recon spotted some insurgents. They were pretty far off, but closer than we'd like them to be."

John nodded and felt like he was forcing his heart not to leap out of his chest. Suddenly in the presences of this too skinny, too tan man, being excited felt like the wrong emotion. They walked in silenced, passing several other armed men lying flat on the sand. John hadn't seen them from a distance, but, he realized rather belatedly, that was the point of camouflage.

"Thanks for agreeing to see me," John said as they entered the camp. There were sand bags all along the perimeter with actual trenches dug behind them. It surprised John to realize that it was to provide cover. It reminded him of every movie about the World Wars that he'd ever seen.

Murray didn't reply at first, just nodded and led John past several tents. They stopped in front of a series of holes dug in the ground and John was just looking down at them when Murray drew his attention.

"You're welcome, but I don't know what you expect to find. You've seen the patients we've sent back. You know what goes on out here. It isn't a game for some government doctor to come out here and tell us how we're doing it wrong–"

"That isn't why I'm here," John said, holding up a hand to stop Murray. "I work with the RAMC back home. I try to shorten the recuperation time for returning soldiers and I've actually had a lot of success with it. Coming home is hard enough without having the physical ailments to deal with. I came to Bastion to see if I could make changes in the hospital structure here that would shorten rehabilitation even more. I'm just trying to fully understand the process. The treatment they receive here is the first step in that."

John could tell by Murray's stance and the angle of his shoulders that he was suspicious of John's motives. The doctor just shrugged and looked back towards the holes in the ground. They looked like cemetery plots, he thought, and realized their purpose just as Murray spoke.

"I had them dig you one," he said, pointing towards one in the middle. "You can drop your stuff there. Most of the men here are on recon. They won't be back until later. If you want we can go to the medical tent and I can show you the set up that we have."

John looked at the hole and tried not to let the surprise show on his face. It had never occurred to him that these men were sleeping in the sand. He assumed there were tents for everyone. He obviously had not researched this enough. He thought back to all of his conversations with all of the soldiers he'd treated in Birmingham. He couldn't recall a single one of them ever talking about sleeping in the sand. Some of them longed for the adrenaline, some of them were secretly glad to be home. None of them had actually spoken about the living arrangements.

For the first time since he left London he felt a sense of unease at his surroundings. He listened to the helicopter as it moved off into the distance. He frowned when he could no longer see it. He could see men moving around now, several of them obviously having conversations. But it was too quiet – alarmingly so.

John took a deep breath and felt twin surges of adrenaline and panic move through him at the same time. He exhaled slowly and gestured towards the tents.

"Let's see your set up."

John tucked his hands into his armpits and tried to hold his arms as tight across his body as he could. For a moment it felt better, then the cold seeped in again. He bit at the collar of the jacket he was using as a blanket and hoped it would at least partially silence the noise of his chattering teeth.

He was certain he'd never been so cold in his life. He shifted again, turning slightly to the side so that he was facing the dirt wall of his tiny trench. It was a minutely warmer position so he settled into it before turning his head so he could see the stars again.

He hadn't thought Bastion gave off too much light, but out here in the desert he was astonished by the stars he could see – thousands of them, easily. It reminded him of some of the pictures he'd seen taken from Hubble. It was beautiful.

He focused on some of the ones he knew and started to organize everything he'd learned today. He'd type it up as soon as he got back to Bastion the following afternoon. It had been a very productive trip.

The medics needed more supplies, preferably modern ones. He made mental a list of what needed to be replaced and what items would be beneficial to include in the future. It wasn't very long. John was impressed with Murray's set up. He seemed a more than competent man and nurse.

It was the situation that seemed barbaric. John had been dumbfounded to learn that Murray had treated everything from bullet wounds to yellow fever to venereal disease.

"There aren't a whole lot of questions asked out here," he'd said. He'd known Murray was speaking about the venereal disease, but John was more concerned with yellow fever. Certainly the antibiotic supplies could be updated, and if higher grade antibiotics could be administered in the field that would decrease the risk of infection once the patient was sent to Bastion. Not to mention the fact that they were in desperate need of antifungal treatments.

_They need a better vaccination regimen_, he thought just as he heard the first voice cry out. John snapped his eyes open, having not realized they'd closed, and stared at the sky again. Another voice cried out a second later, and then several more. He lifted his head just as the gunshots started. The voices were crying out in English and then in a language he didn't understand. He could see the muzzle flashes as guns were fired. All of the men around him were flying out of their holes and running in different directions. John just sat there, trying to follow the patterns, trying to fix the voices.

There were more gun shots and they were closer this time. A wall of men were blocking John from the sound and he realized finally that the war was going on the other side of it. The camp was being fired upon and they were firing back. The adrenaline started surging through his body and he threw his coat off. Murray had told him if anything happened to just stay put but that seemed ridiculous now. If there were bullets being fired, there were people getting hurt.

As if on cue, a man fell less than thirty feet from where John was. He could see a dark pool forming on the soldier's neck. John took deep breath and climbed out of his hole. He went step by step through the training classes he'd had in London and not a single scenario they'd discussed seemed to fit with this situation. He stayed down, not wanting to get in the line of fire and not wanting to get in anyone's way.

He made it to the injured soldier in a matter of seconds. The bullet hadn't hit the jugular because the wound wasn't spurting but there was a lot of blood loss. John mentally berated himself for a second for leaving his bag in the pit before he pulled his shirt off and covered the wound.

"Can you hear me?" he whispered but couldn't even hear himself over the noise. "Can you hear me?" he shouted and the soldier's eyes shot open. He struggled for a minute before relaxing and meeting John's eyes.

There was a thump and John looked over his shoulder to see another man go down, but he couldn't see his wound in the dark. He turned back to the first man and met his eyes. "I need you to bring your hand up and hold this." He put pressure on the shirt so the soldier would know what he meant. "I have to help him. You'll be fine if you just hold the shirt."

The man's hand came up and covered John's. They stayed locked like that for a split second before John pulled away. His own heart was slamming against his ribs and he was vaguely aware of the fact that he was cold as he crawled toward the second victim.

"Leave him, Doctor Watson. He's dead." John recognized Murray's voice and looked back. The first injured man was being dragged away by his shoulders, face contorted in pain but his hand still holding tight to the bloody shirt. John saw Murray on the far side of him looking at someone else.

John glanced back at the body in front of him. He hadn't looked at him yet. Hadn't even found the wound.

"He's dead," Murray said. "We'll come back for him. We need to move now!" John shook his head. They didn't know that. Murray hadn't even looked at him.

"Doctor Watson!" John heard as he turned one last time. He saw another soldier fall backwards and then saw the pile of sandbags. He frowned at them before seeing a face on the other side. John studied it, trying to memorize it in the split second before he saw the flash.


	3. Patterson

Sherlock stood in the back of the room and desperately tried to ignore the whole event. The group broke into applause and he clapped along simply out of obligation. Sally Donovan was at the podium now, smiling humbly at the room. Sherlock knew it was all an act. She was manipulative and conniving. Not to mention all the rumors about her sleeping with some married socko.

Sherlock sighed – all this attention would have been on him if only he'd listened to Mycroft. He'd never admit that aloud. Sally hadn't earned this promotion; he'd handed it to her on a silver platter. If he hadn't been so busy trying to insert himself into murder investigations he would have discovered the largest smuggling ring in the history of the UK. He'd have been the one to fly to Beijing, and he'd have been the one to put the handcuffs on Sebastian Wilkes. The blasted man had even been one of his flatmates at university. Sherlock stayed in sporadic contact with him – but it was Sally Donovan who who'd become the department hero.

He shook his head again in disbelief and joined in the applause as the meeting adjourned. He knew Donovan had been offered any position that she wanted and she'd accepted one on the Murder Investigation Team. The position Sherlock had submitted for, the one he was desperate for. It made his stomach turn.

As everyone else stood, Sherlock took the opportunity to head out the door. He didn't need to see any more of the congratulations. He walked down the short hallway not looking at all the newspapers plastered on the walls to tease Donovan over her success. He felt as if Sally's serious face was mocking him the whole way to his desk.

He sat in the standard issue chair that was too short for his tall frame and fitted his legs awkwardly underneath his desk. An eruption of cheers found their way to his ears and he rolled his eyes. Really, the celebrations were ridiculous at this point; she'd just made an arrest. Officers did it every single day.

Sherlock opened his email reluctantly. He'd received a series of spreadsheets from the forensic accountants along with their analyses. The idea of spending the next few days sorting through those made his head ache and, not for the first time since the closing of the Shad Sanderson case, he thought about giving his notice. He had the overwhelming sensation that he was stuck here in this tedious job forever.

But he knew he wouldn't give Mycroft the satisfaction. He could hear his brother now, criticizing the failure. He'd have to make an extra effort to avoid him for the next few days.

"Excuse me," came a voice from behind him and Sherlock turned. There was a young uniformed officer standing behind him with a sealed case envelope in his hand. "I'm looking for Detective Sergeant Donovan?"

Sherlock pointed down the hallway. "Follow the cries of glee," he said.

"Shame to disrupt the party," the young man said, shrugging his shoulders. "But a suspicious death, especially a high profile one–" he trailed off and started toward the celebration. Sherlock watched him for a moment before turning back to his spreadsheet. He stared blankly at the screen for exactly forty-seven seconds before opening the police dispatch log and finding out where the most recent calls were. A suspected suicide caught his attention – he was certain he'd heard the name Sir Jeffery Patterson before.

* * *

Sherlock turned the volume up on the telly and sat his laptop on the table. He'd read the internal memo that there was going to be a press conference with Patterson's widow but he hadn't expected it so soon. He sat forward on the couch, resting his elbows on his knees while his printer continued its quiet whine on the floor next to the couch.

He didn't recognize the officers either side of Mrs. Patterson, which surprised him. He knew Lestrade's team was taking over the investigation because of the high profile of the victim. The post-mortem was being rushed, as was the inquest. According to the little information Sherlock had been able to gather, all of the physical evidence pointed to suicide but the victim profile didn't fit. Patterson had made plans for the next day, confirming them just this morning. He hadn't left a note or left any farewell messages to his family. He had no reason to be in the empty office space where he'd been found. According to his assistant, he'd been in the process of heading back to the office. There was an unusual amount of planning for someone who didn't plan on living to see it.

But he appeared to have died from voluntarily swallowing a poison. How could you make someone swallow poison? How could you make someone kill themselves? It didn't make sense. It was fascinating.

Sherlock watched the widow's hands shake as she read her statement. She swore her husband wasn't the kind of man to kill himself and Sherlock believed her. He suspected Lestrade would as well. He wished desperately he could sit in on the interview with her. She would undoubtedly provide insight into her husband's motives that Sherlock wouldn't be able to learn online – not that he wouldn't try.

The printer continued to whine; he estimated that he had approximately one hundred and twenty pages of information to go through and that was only on Patterson. He hadn't started his research into forced suicides yet but there had to be a precedent. There always was.

The press conference ended and Sherlock pulled his computer back onto his lap. He'd 'accidentally' stumbled across Lestrade's computer login and password several months ago and had been using them sparingly to keep up to date on certain cases. He knew this would be one of them. The only new things were a series of emails with background on Patterson and one confirming the time of the post mortem in the morning. More would come though, and Sherlock would monitor it all.

He was never exactly sure what he expected to happen. He didn't know if he'd see something that the team missed or find a connection they weren't aware of. He had some vague image of being the hero and magically solving the case. He knew it was ridiculous.

He grabbed a stack of papers from the printer and set them aside. He had to do some of his own work before he could start sorting through those. He had a meeting with his DI in the morning and was already trying her patience. More delays wouldn't be accepted and disciplinary action was no way to advance in the Yard.

* * *

Sherlock glanced at the clock, not surprised to see it was well after one am. He consolidated and saved his report before emailing it, along with some supporting documents, to his DI. She'd be satisfied with them and he'd have plenty of time tomorrow to read up on the Patterson case.

He sat the laptop down and stood up. He'd been sitting for almost seven hours and his body felt like it. He was just reaching down to close his computer when the chime announced he had a new email. Sherlock expected to see something from his DI, as she was a known insomniac, but it was from an account he didn't immediately recognize.

He frowned at the name before opening the message. "Martha Hudson," he murmured, bringing up the image of the elderly woman whose husband was in prison in Florida. Sherlock remembered her sat in her small sitting room, terrified her husband might get out on appeal. He was a hitman who'd been found guilty of murder and was set to be executed, but his attorney had questioned some of the evidence. The case had landed on Sherlock's desk because he'd been assigned to tracking Hudson's UK financial trail. Mrs. Hudson had given Sherlock carte blanche to search through everything – and he had. He'd found the damning evidence and sent it straight to Florida.

That had been six months ago and he honestly hadn't given anymore thought to the case. Mrs. Hudson's message was a simple "thank you" along with an attachment. Sherlock opened it, not surprised to see an article from _The Miami Herald_ appear on his screen.

_Appeal Denied, Hitman to be Executed at Midnight _

Sherlock thought about the fear that had shaken the small woman's frame as she spoke of her husband. He didn't give much thought to capital punishment but he couldn't find fault with anything that let that poor woman live in peace. He smiled as he typed out his quick reply.


	4. Tremors

John opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.

"'Morning, Doctor Watson," said a quiet voice and John's eyes darted to the left. Gloria was standing next to him, looking at the machines. "Are you excited to go home today?"

He watched her for another minute before turning back to the ceiling.

Gloria was an excellent nurse, one that John always insisted be on his team when he was working here. He wondered if all of his patients had the same hatred for her that he'd developed. He could barely tolerate her constant cheerful attitude when he felt so miserable.

And yet a part of him knew she was the right choice. Just as a part of him knew that he was depressed. It was a natural reaction, one of the steps. But knowing it did nothing to help him.

"It's not home exactly," he said and heard the rustle of material that indicated Gloria was shrugging her shoulders.

"Still better than here, isn't it? And you aren't going to the rehab facility." Her voice was barely above a whisper and a pang of guilt moved through John. She was right of course - he wasn't moving into the rehab facility like most of the people here would. He wasn't destined to live in a tiny flat with one window, a microwave, and his therapist wasn't his only 'friend' in the world. John was going to a flat in Canary Wharf with his own bed and bath. He was going to have his sister and sister-in-law there to help him.

He glanced around the room at the cards and flowers that filled his tiny space. He'd been in the hospital for almost six weeks and the room had never been bare. He certainly wasn't lacking in people who cared about him.

He sighed and nodded at Gloria who smiled at him again, handing him the small cup with his daily pills. "I'm going to sit you up," she said, taking the bed controls away from him. "Your physical therapist will be in soon to do you last session before they pick you up."

John's shoulder burned as the mattress pushed against it. He shifted and felt the pain move down his bound arm, gritting his teeth and leaning his head back as his fingers started to ache.

"It'll pass," Gloria said confidently next to him and he struggled to nod. He knew that the pain would pass this time. And it'd be back again. A flare of fire shot through his shoulder as the tremor slowed and his arm stilled. He exhaled. Gloria eyed him for a minute before apparently confirming that it was over. She patted his good arm and smiled again. "Your sister said she was looking into some experimental surgeries. Apparently there has been some success with a new technique…."

"It won't work for me," John said, not wanting to have this conversation again. He'd had to listen to Harry rave about it two days ago. John knew he shouldn't be angry at her; she was just trying to help. She found something new almost every day - surgical options, massage options, chiropractic options, holistic options. And John knew that none of them would work. He knew better. He was too good of a doctor to be fooled by hope.

Gloria just nodded and John could feel the wave of sympathy coming off of her. He didn't know if it was that or the residual pain that made him feel nauseous. She squeezed his healthy bicep again.

"Paul will be up shortly," she said as the door closed behind her.

Paul, the physical therapist John had handpicked this project, had been patient and kind and treated him with the same respect as when John had been his boss. Paul genuinely admired him and John didn't feel worthy of it.

* * *

"How are you doing over there?" Clara asked and John turned away from the countryside that was passing by his car window to look at her. She had her dark hair pulled back in a loose ponytail that was draped over her shoulder. There was a smile on her face as she glanced at him before turning her attention back to the road.

Clara was the only person whose presence he found tolerable, and he'd spent a few weeks wondering over that before he'd figured it out. She was the only one he'd dealt with since coming back who treated him exactly the same as before. She would accommodate his injury, but her voice never carried a hint of the sympathy that she must have been feeling for him. She didn't coddle him in any way, and her first question upon seeing him was never 'how are you feeling today?'. She was the only person he'd had any real conversations with since he'd woken up in Birmingham all those weeks ago with no memory of how he'd got there.

"Fine," he said, turning back to his countryside.

"Liar," she said and nothing else. He smiled despite himself and remained quiet. It was a comfortable silence.

After another half hour or so John heard a quiet click and looked back to see her turning the radio on. "The news," she said to the unasked question and he nodded. He'd paid very little attention to the world events in the last six weeks and was actually curious to see what he'd missed.

"_Our lead story today is of the death of Sir Jeffery Patterson . As we reported earlier this was believed to be a suicide; however, the announcement that Scotland Yard will be holding a press conference concerning the case this afternoon, and that Patterson's widow will be among the speakers, has led to speculation that it will be labeled as a suspicious death. As more and more details…"_

"Harry's sorry that she couldn't make the trip with me to pick you up. She's in court today."

"It's fine," John said as the news stories filtered into the background.

"It's not really," Clara said quietly, but continued before John could say anything in response. "She's found a new treatment out of Duke University-"

"Don't," John interrupted and turned away again. There was a small village out of his window now and he wondered which one it was. He wondered, vaguely, if he'd be happy living there before he focused of the feeling of Clara eyeing him from the driver's seat.

He didn't say anything, just kept his attention on the countryside that followed the village.

"It isn't going to get better, is it?" she asked after a while and the question hung between them for a long minute.

"No," John said, swallowing quickly at the crack in his voice. His throat ached but he managed to push the sensation away. Clara was patient as he did so, quiet next to him.

He glanced down at his left hand. It was still pressed securely against his chest by the blue sling. It was uncomfortable and the strap was digging into his neck, but it helped. His safety belt that had been pushed over his body so that it sat across him awkwardly. He couldn't wear it correctly, too much pressure on his shoulder. He couldn't ride on the train, too much jostling about for his shoulder.

Damn his shoulder.

He'd never perform surgery again. His hand would never be completely steady again. His life, as he'd always known it, was over.

And yet here he was in a BMW on his way from Birmingham to his sister's flat in Canary Wharf. None of it was right. None of it made sense. None of it was fair.

"I know you don't think so right now," Clara began, "but it will get better, John. I promise."

He kept his eyes on her as she steered them through the traffic that indicated that they were getting closer to London but she didn't glance back. All he could think was that this woman who'd been the only tolerable human he'd encountered in the last six weeks had finally descended into the world of useless platitudes. He groaned internally before turning away again, the radio news droning on in the background.


	5. Phillimore

Sherlock exited the lift and started down the oddly lit hallway. He kept his eyes peeled, not certain when Lestrade would stop by to discuss the autopsy. He didn't want the DI to find out he was doing his own investigation. After hacking in to Lestrade's email he'd found several from the medical examiner. However, they had been very vague, and the response only stated that he'd stop by to get more details.

James Phillimore had committed suicide a week ago and nobody had paid much attention to it until a possible connection was made to the Patterson's 'suicide' last month. The rumor had spread through the Yard and Sherlock had immediately jumped into action, pulling all of the official reports on the Phillimore case, and had immediately noted a few similarities. Sherlock could remember the quoted text exactly:

"We couldn't get a cab to stop, not unusual. He wanted to go back and get an umbrella. I tried to tell him we could just share mine, but that's always awkward. He said he'd just be two minutes, and his flat was just around the corner."

There had been no indication that he was going to commit suicide, none of the common indicators that he'd been planning it. Who kills himself in the middle of an evening with his mates?

Sherlock turned a corner, maneuvering through the hall of offices that led to the laboratories and the morgue. He vaguely wondered if the young man's body was still in a freezer, but dismissed the thought when he saw Molly standing outside a closed door. She was technically in the vending machine alcove and appeared to be on the verge of putting coins into the machine, but instead was still. When she noticed Sherlock she brought her fingers to her lips, indicating to him that he should stay silent. As he moved next to her, he heard the quiet voices coming from the closed door.

Just then there was the sound of a chair moving on the tile floor and on cue Molly dropped the coins into the machine. The volume of the voices increased as the people on the other side of the door made casual good-byes.

"What can I help you with? You only come and see me when you need something," she asked, eyeing him for a moment before leaning over to fish her crisps from the machine.

The door opened and three men and two women emerged, hardly paying attention to the assistant and the tall man she was talking to. Molly smiled as the last man closed the door behind him. Sherlock recognized him but didn't know his name. The man smiled at Molly, but it was forced.

Sherlock watched them walk away and waited until he was certain he wouldn't be overheard before he answered.

"James Phillimore," he said and Molly rolled her eyes as she turned away.

"It's always a case with you," she said over her shoulder and Sherlock recognized they were heading to her small office next to the lab. She was annoyed with him – she always was lately. He'd know that she was interested in him at one point, but he suspected that had faded when he'd told her he was gay. She'd been surprised and he'd just shrugged. It wasn't something he kept hidden.

"I want to know whether it was–"

"A murder. Yes, I expected as much. Lestrade's already been here by the way." She opened the door to her small office and went inside. With her oversized desk jutting out from one wall there was barely room for both of them to stand so Sherlock stayed mostly in the doorway as she picked a file up from her desk and handed it to him. There was a picture of a new cat on her desk; he wondered how many she had now.

He opened the file but kept his eyes on Molly for a moment. She dropped the bag of crisps onto her desk and collapsed back into her chair, huffing and looking up at him. When she realized he was still watching her she crossed her arms and lifted her eyebrows.

"I don't have all day," she said. Sherlock frowned but glanced at the folder. He was going over the medical examiners initial report when she huffed again and leaned up to take the folder out of his hands.

"It was the toxicology," she said. "The same mix of chemicals and it appears that they were swallowed."

"Oh," he replied, leaning against the door frame.

"Yeah, well. That combined with the fact that neither of them were apparent suicide candidates. It's now being linked to the other case–"

"Patterson," he supplied and she nodded.

"Both are being listed as 'suspicious deaths' and Lestrade thinks the same killer is responsible." Sherlock nodded and kept looking at her. After a long second Molly sighed, opening the file and writing something down quickly.

"The combination of toxins," she said.

"Anything else?" he asked as he glanced at the list she'd handed him.

She was quiet for a minute before shaking her head. "No, that's all that I heard. I was working though. My job here isn't solely to provide information to you."

He didn't react. He was curious as to what Lestrade's next step would be. Would he try and track the chemicals? Try and connect the victims? CCTV? Sherlock knew Mycroft had access to the footage so he'd call his brother as soon as he was done here. He could at least keep up with that aspect of the case fairly easily. Not to mention that he already had notebooks full of information on Patterson. He could look in to Phillimore tonight and see if he could see a connection. There had to be something, there always was. If he could find it – well, it might be the opening he needed.

Molly sighed and sat back in her chair. "Doctor Newsom is retiring at the end of the month," she said although Sherlock had no idea who that was. "He's not well. He's the reason I took the position here. He took me under his wing and taught me everything." She paused, looking sad for a minute. "Apparently they already have a replacement in mind, but aren't sure if he'll take the position. I was trying to overhear a name when you came up. They didn't say it but rumors are that it's Mike Stamford. He went to school here and has worked in private research for several years, so it would be a serious pay cut. Not that he's a bad choice." She shrugged. "He isn't a bad choice," she repeated as if trying to convince herself.

Sherlock didn't know that name either, not that he expected to. He could care less about all of this, but Molly was a useful source to him and he didn't want to completely alienate her. He sighed inwardly, steeling himself when she began telling him about her new kitten.

* * *

Sherlock stared at the piles of paperwork sitting in front of him. It was a barely organized mess full of pen and highlighter marks. And after all of the work he'd come up with nothing. He couldn't find a single connection between James Phillimore and Jeffery Patterson. As far as he could tell the two men had zero in common. Granted he didn't have complete access to the financial records, but one of the forensic accountants had agreed to send him a copy of the findings.

Sherlock was almost positive they wouldn't find anything. They were different ages, different backgrounds, different classes. They had different interests overall.

A serial killer who makes the victims kill themselves. Sherlock was sure it had happened before, but probably not like this. Neither victim showed any signs of torture or any physical harm at all. How had he made them swallow the toxins and why hadn't they fought back? Surely James Phillimore, who was a young fit man, could have and should have fought back. And yet there was no indication that he had.

And why were they chosen? What did the two men have in common? There had to be something. Sherlock couldn't find it and he wondered if Lestrade and his team were having more luck. He was tempted to check Lestrade's email again, but it could wait until morning.

He glanced at his clock on the wall and smiled. It could wait until later in the morning. He'd promised himself yesterday afternoon that he'd start his search for a new flat. His lease was up and the building was going to undergo renovations, so he was going to have to move out in two months. Sherlock looked around the small flat – the place was in definite need of updates, but the thought of moving was tedious. The reason he'd lived in the same place since he first started working at the Yard was that he didn't want to move the ridiculous amount of material he'd accumulated over the years. It all had value.

He picked his laptop up off the floor, suddenly remembering about Mrs. Hudson, the dear old woman whose husband had been executed. He had been intending to check up on her. The building she owned had a flat in it. Perhaps he'd call on her after all and see if it was available.


	6. A Job

John sipped his coffee and tried not to hear the too loud voices coming from the bedroom down the hall. It wasn't getting any better and he wondered how much the three empty bottles of wine sitting next to the sink had to do with it. He glanced at them – two red one white. Harry didn't drink white and Clara didn't drink red. He shook his head and grabbed the stack of papers he'd printed up last night. He doubted he'd find anything among them.

The agent he'd hired to find him a flat had been recommended as fairly competent but wasn't truly understanding what John wanted. The continuous stream of modern flats that John was being shown were all melding together in his mind and none of them were what he wanted. He wanted something with character, something older, something less sterile.

The agent had been shocked to learn that John already owned a flat, a nice one in a modern skyrise in Knightsbridge. The address has been immediately recognizable – the building was incredible pricy and exclusive.

"Why don't you move back into that flat?" he'd been asked. John had just shrugged his shoulders. He was leasing it to a young couple – a hedge fund manager and a higher up with Lloyd's. They'd fallen in love with the flat when they first saw it and seemed to be happy there. They made no complaints and paid their rent on time – rent that was significantly more than John was paying out on the mortgage, so he couldn't justify asking them to leave. And while he'd enjoyed the flat, he'd never loved it. He wanted to live someplace he loved.

John glanced down the hall where the voices had come to a sudden halt.

He wanted to live someplace that felt like home.

A door opened and John quickly looked back at his papers. Based on the footsteps and the time of day it would be Harry coming out. She had to be at work earlier than Clara.

"Good morning," she said, kissing him on the cheek as she walked by. He could still hear a trace of the argument in her voice and smell a stale hint of the wine from the previous night.

"Good morning," John replied and flipped past the first listing. He had no desire to live in Greenwich.

"You don't have to do that," she said as she grabbed a mug and reached for the coffee. "You're more than welcome to stay here."

John flipped past the second one, same building as the first before looking up at his sister. He knew that she meant it. He was more than welcome. He wasn't the cause of their problems, but he wasn't helping either.

He shook his head and looked down at the next listing. "No, it's time to re-establish myself. Time to move on with my life – or whatever the proper psychological terminology is." Harry chuckled and sat down across from him. He watched her eyes dart towards the bedroom door and then she looked back at him. She looked regretful and he understood in a flash that it was over between them. Harry was going to leave Clara.

His chest ached and he wondered if Clara knew. He felt a wave of sympathy for his sister-in-law and a surge of anger at his sister. He couldn't say he was surprised though; Harry was just being Harry.

"Have you made a decision about Bart's?" she asked, grabbing an apple from the small dish on the table. John glanced at the apple that he'd eaten when he first got up. He could easily bring up dozens of memories of his father doing the same thing. He almost smiled.

"No," he said and truthfully he hadn't. He oscillated between desperately wanting to take the position and being terrified of it. It was the fear that bothered him – he'd never felt it so strongly before.

"For what it's worth," and she knew it wasn't worth too much, "I think you should do it. Use it as something to get you back into the swing of things, if nothing else. You have to do something, John. Since you're so insistent that your condition is permanent, this seems like a reasonable move."

John sat back and fought the urge to roll his eyes. He wasn't going to argue the condition of his wound with Harry again. He'd finally conceded to see a specialist last month in hopes that it would get her to back off. When he'd had confirmation from the neurologist she'd just shaken her head and suggested he see someone else. He'd been exasperated in part because she was refusing to drop it and in part because he didn't understand why she wouldn't. Surely there was something other than sibling affection at work, but he had no idea what it could be. Harry had been a puzzle to him his whole life.

"I'm weighing my options," he said finally. "They don't need an answer immediately and I do need to find a flat."

Harry nodded and drained the rest of her coffee. "Listen," she said, standing and moving to the sink. She sat the mug on the stainless steel surface and then rested her hands on the counter, not quite looking at him. "I," she started but stopped to clear her throat. "We," she corrected, "are going to take a break for a while. Clara and I. She's going to pack up some of her stuff and stay with her parents for a bit. We're going to try counseling, I think, or…" She trailed off, lost in thought for a moment. "She wants to try and work it out."

John stared at his sisters back for another minute. Her back was stiff, and her head was dipped low. She was feeling guilty. "You should tell her," he said glancing to make sure that they were still alone. Harry glanced over her shoulder and met his eyes. One of her eyebrows were lifted up in inquiry, but she knew that he knew. "She deserves to know that you don't want to work it out. She deserves to know that there's somebody else."

Harry looked at him for a long second before sighing and turning away. She nodded and pushed off the counter. "Yeah," she said but didn't meet his eyes. "You're right. As always," she added almost angrily. "You can still stay here though." She picked up her briefcase from the small counter and grabbed her keys off the hook. "You're always welcome."

John's chest swelled with guilt. Surely the prospect of living with just his sister shouldn't be so horrifying.

* * *

"This will be your office."

It was larger than John had expected, but still smaller than what he'd worked out of before. Granted he'd be in the lab a lot more here, and he'd have a desk in the larger office down there as well. The view was of the street and the buildings across it, dull, but not horrible.

"Thank you," John said and smiled at Dr. Spence. The other man was older than John had expected, early sixties, but seemed spry and youthful. He was obviously a long time vegetarian, and John suspected he'd made the switch to veganism long before it was so popular. He also was an experienced yoga practitioner.

"I understand you won't actually be teaching any classes this term?" John nodded, already planning the furniture layout in his mind. He wouldn't be able to get it all out of storage, but he would probably be able to get a smaller storage unit afterwards.

"No," he answered, mentally debating whether his cherry wood desk would look better angled or flush against the wall. "All the classes were already assigned and complete reshuffling didn't make any sense. I'll be sort of a lecturer extraordinaire from what I gather, and work as a consultant on some of the criminal and research programs."

"Well, at least it won't be boring!" Spence said. "Do you need anything else from me before I head back? I've got lab time booked in twenty minutes." John shook his head. The tour hadn't really been necessary – he'd gone to school here after all. Very little had changed. And he was also almost positive that it could and would be boring.

It would get him out of the house though. It'd be less time with rarely sober Harry, and less reminders of Clara. He genuinely missed her, her company, and her friendship. The break-up hadn't been pretty and it was only going to get worse. No matter how much he wanted to side with Clara, Harry was still his sister.

"I hope not," John answered as he held out his hand. "Thanks for the tour. Can I come to you if I have any questions?"

"Certainly," Spence replied. "We're glad to have you here and I look forward to working with you."

After Spence had gone, John looked around again and calculated that he'd only be able to bring two of his bookcases. That meant he'd have to weed out some of his books as well. He would certainly adjust it based on the classes he was teaching and the research he was doing, but some of the basics would be required.

He thought about the copy of _Grey's Anatomy_ that his mother had bought for him when he started university. He'd carried it everywhere and used it religiously. He'd noted it, annotated it, and all but broken the spine. It would sit on the corner of his desk, just as it always had.

He heard quiet footsteps just before a throat politely cleared announced someone's presence. John turned to see an unfamiliar woman standing in his doorway. She was small, with hair in a loosely hung pony tail. She was in a lab coat, ill-fitted clothes, and she was fidgeting with her hands in front of her. She met his eyes and blushed. As her lips formed into a smile he noticed her lipstick – it had been hastily applied and obviously wasn't frequently worn. And, while it was far from his area of expertise, he thought perhaps the color was not ideal for her. Too pink.

"Hello," she said nervously. "I'm Molly Hooper."

"John Watson," he said, taking a few steps and holding out a hand to her. Her fingers were clammy and her wrist was limp.

"I know," was almost out of her mouth before she caught herself. John hoped that this rather ill-timed crush would either be brought under control, or, if he was lucky, he wouldn't have to work with Ms. Hooper often. "Um," she cleared her throat again. "Dr. Sentry sent me up. Apparently there was a suspicious death last night and Scotland Yard is coming in for a consultation. He thought you might want to sit in on it."


	7. The Second Meeting

Sherlock walked quietly down the hall. When he reached the door he paused and looked around him. There were no voices in the hall and none that he could hear in his immediate area. Molly had told him the lab was having a going away luncheon for her mentor today, so he knew there would be very few people about.

He looked around one more time before sliding the two slim metal rods from his pocket and inserting them into the lock. He'd done extensive study on lock picking methods online and had been practicing for months. He was far from a master but his skills were passable and he worked hard at not leaving a mark – years as a police officer had taught him all the ways people could be caught. He had no interest in become a victim of forensics, especially that imbecile Anderson.

Sherlock closed his eyes and imagined the inner workings of the device, moving through it step by step until he heard the quiet click that almost made him yelp in glee. Instead he opened his eyes and looked around again. There was still no one nearby him, so he pushed open the door and walked inside.

Molly's office had the same haphazard appearance that it always had, but he'd spent enough time in here to have a basic understanding of her mess. He too was far from being typically organized. Sherlock sat in her chair and started going through the files on the left hand side.

"_Holmes!," came his DI's voice across the office. He'd glanced up, quickly closing the newspaper article he'd been reading about the discovery of Davenport's body. He always kept a basic spreadsheet open on his desktop in case he needed to look like he was working. "GET IN HERE!" _

_He'd stood reluctantly as all the other eyes in the room landed on him. He didn't meet them, turning his attention instead to the small woman standing in her office doorway with a look of absolute ire on her face. _

Sherlock cringed as her words came back to him. He'd been reprimanded before, but never to that extent. She'd been livid – company time spent investigating cases that weren't his. Lestrade had been notified that Sherlock had requested copies of every single report filed. Patterson's widow confirmed that another police officer had come to interview her after she'd provided all of her information. Lestrade had put two and two together and notified Sherlock's DI.

It had only gone downhill from there.

A temporary suspension pending a further investigation. There was a very real possibility he'd be back in a uniform soon, responding to domestics and muggings. The thought of it was repulsive, but as he'd walked by his desk and picked up his few belongings he couldn't help but realize how much free time he'd have now to investigate further.

Once again, thoughts of leaving the Yard were swirling around his brain. Perhaps he'd become a private detective. He could have a small office and a secretary. Maybe he'd buy a fedora. Then he pushed the idea away – all of his contacts were because of his position in the Yard; without them he'd be able to do nothing. He hadn't exactly made enemies, but he was hardly making friends.

"_You've been suspended, Sherlock! They're going to figure out I gave you information, too!"_

_He shook his head, listening to Molly on the other end of the line. "I wouldn't tell the—" _

"_It doesn't matter!" she shrieked. "I have a new boss _–_ he's hardly stupid! I'm the only one here who talks to you. They'll fire me!"_

"_No," he'd tried to say but she shrieked some more. He'd held the phone away from his ear and when he went back she'd rung off. He'd tried to call her back but she wouldn't answer. _

Which is why he was digging through her office while she was out at lunch. The file he wanted wasn't in the usual pile. He frowned as he opened one of the drawers and started to rummage through it. Perhaps she'd filed it already – surely the postmortem had been done; it had been a fortnight.

_**Suicide of MP Linked to Two Previous**_

_Sherlock stared at the headline as he drank his morning cuppa. He was trying to put off packing another box, especially as he still wasn't certain about the new flat. Mrs. Hudson was giving him an excellent monthly rent, but he was still going to be stretched. Perhaps he shouldn't have spent all that money on a new computer or the basic science equipment._

He closed the drawer, glancing around before settling on the small filing cabinet in the corner. Sherlock paused by the door but heard no noise from the hallway. Surely he had a few more minutes. He squatted next to the cabinet as he pulled the first drawer open.

"_We're certain the cases are connected." _

_Sherlock watched the press conference from the small bistro around the corner from his flat. He'd been waiting on a sandwich when Lestrade's voice filled the tiny space. Sherlock's stomach had flipped over seeing Donovan sitting next to him. He pulled his phone out and dialed Molly… _

"Shit," he muttered as he pulled a file out and several sheets of paper fell to the floor, one page between the cabinet and the wall. Sherlock sighed, stretching a long arm towards it. His fingers closed around it just as he heard a noise behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a pair of legs standing in the doorway.

"Oh," he said pulling the paper out and shifted to face the newcomer, already running through several excuses in his head. None of them seemed viable, and he'd settled on blaming Molly when his eyes found the man's face.

"Sherlock Holmes, isn't it?"

Sherlock eyed the blonde man – he recognized the face, but couldn't quite place it. Through the Yard made the most sense but he couldn't reconcile the face with any case or meeting. And he'd never had any legitimate dealings in the hospital before.

A smile broke out across the stranger's face and the memory came back to him immediately: Mycroft's club, a farewell party, a doctor going to Afghanistan.

"Doctor Watson," Sherlock said, pushing himself to his feet and holding out a hand. Perhaps if they got caught up in conversation John would forget that Sherlock didn't belong here.

"John, please," the shorter man replied as he took Sherlock's hand. "A pleasure to see you again." John let his hand drop and then looked around the room. "Do you have some business with Ms. Hooper?"

Sherlock felt his stomach drop, but managed to nod anyway. "The Davenport suicide," he said. "I had some questions about the post-mortem." John watched him for a minute then nodded again.

"No problem, that file's in my office though. I was going to send it over to Inspector Lestrade this afternoon."

John turned and walked out of the room. Sherlock was still for another moment before rising, letting the paper drop back to the floor, and following John out of the room.

"I've never seen anything quite like this," John said, glancing over his shoulder as Sherlock caught up. "Granted I'm fairly new to the forensic medicine side of the field, but even in my case studies I've never came across anything like this. Forced suicides."

Sherlock nodded and just followed along. John sighed as they turned a corner and waited at the lifts.

"But I'm sure you're familiar with it – I can confirm that it was the same poison found in MP Davenport's system. Whoever this person is, they're pretty intelligent." He paused and entered the lift when the doors opened. Sherlock followed him inside and they stood in silence for a minute.

"When is your move?" John asked after a moment and Sherlock turned to him.

"Sorry?"

"You're moving aren't you? Soon? Packed up already?"

Sherlock stared at him dumbfounded for a moment before the lift doors opened and John exited. Sherlock stood in place until he had to reach an arm out to stop the doors from closing.

"How—" he started as John opened a door and went inside. The office was larger than Sherlock imagined, but there was nothing in the room to indicate the man was important. It was nice, but not ostentatious.

"Here you go," John said. handing the folder over. "All of the information on Beth Davenport." Sherlock accepted the folder and John smiled up at him. "I hope it helps."

Sherlock nodded and looked at the collection of papers he was holding in his hand and then back at John.

"How did you know I was moving?" he asked, unable to get past the question. He looked at the folder again and for the first time he felt guilty about getting information. He wasn't supposed to just walk away with it. John was being kind and Sherlock certainly had no desire to get the doctor in trouble. But surely the man should have asked if Sherlock was working on the case. It seemed unreasonable to just pass out the information.

"Your pocket," John said, pointing at the pocket on the left side of Sherlock's jacket. "Receipt for lorry rental – you've hired one to move your belongings. Looks like you signed up this morning."

Sherlock nodded and looked back at John. "Tomorrow, but-–"

"Very nice," John said sitting down in his chair and gesturing for Sherlock to have a seat. "I've been searching for a new flat myself. I've been living with my sister since I got back from Afghanistan, it's been less than pleasant. Where did you find a place?"

"Baker Street," Sherlock said. "221B," he added as he sat back in the chair and placed the file in his lap.

John nodded, then leaned forward and started typing on his keyboard. "You can go through that file now if you like, or you can take it with you. I have copies; I always make copies." Sherlock nodded and felt guilty again. He opened his mouth to say something.

"This place on Baker Street, it seems there is other space available. An unfinished basement unit and there's another room on the floor above yours, shared bathroom and kitchen. Interesting," John said and leaned back in his seat. "Are you always so messy or is that because of the packing situation?"

"What?" Sherlock asked shaking his head, confused. "I'm not—"

"Not that it's a deal breaker, but I'll probably clean up after you. I hope that doesn't bother you."

"What?" Sherlock repeated.

"You obviously play a string instrument – the violin if I had to guess. I'd prefer that it be played during reasonable hours. Also not a deal breaker, but I'm not a pleasant person when I don't sleep so it would benefit you as much as me."

"I'm sorry, but—"

"I can meet you there tomorrow at about eleven if that works."

"Um," Sherlock said again staring at the file in his hand and then back at John. "Yes, fine." He looked back at the file.

"And don't worry," John said. "I won't mention that I gave you a copy. I doubt it will look good for you, investigating the case that got you suspended. I also won't mention the lock picking devices I can see in your pocket." Sherlock's head snapped down and saw the outline two metal pieces sticking against the fabric of right jacket pocket. "I bet the Yard frowns upon their sergeants breaking and entering."

"I didn't–"

"Of course you did," John said and stood up. Sherlock watched him walk around the desk, his mind spinning in a dozen different directions. "No worries, though. As I said, I have very no interest in telling on you." John stopped next to Sherlock and held his arm out to the door. Sherlock vaguely understood that he was being kicked out and stood accordingly. He started towards the door with John behind him and then turned and held his finger up. John lightly pushed Sherlock's arm down, a smile crossing his face and maneuvered Sherlock out the door.

"DI Lestrade seems more than competent, but I'm unsure about the rest of his team. I think he's unsure about the rest of his team if we're being honest, but that's neither here nor there. I can see no problem with another set of eyes looking over the case, on his own time, as long as it doesn't compromise the investigation. Are you interested in compromising the investigation?"

Sherlock shook his head and tried to speak again. Was John his new flatmate? He was uncertain as to exactly what had happened. He wanted some clarification.

"I didn't think so. Well, it was a pleasure meeting you again, Sherlock, and I'll see you in the morning. Good evening."

The door closed and Sherlock stood, staring blankly at it for a moment. He heard quiet noises on the other side of the door but couldn't identify them. Perhaps he fell in Molly's office and hit his head? He reached his fingers up and ran them gingerly through his curls. Nothing. He'd obviously gone mental, but couldn't figure out exactly when it had happened.


	8. 221B Baker Street

_It was so hot that John could feel the sweat dripping down his back. The body pressed against him was even hotter, with a sweet scent filling his nostrils. John gulped in a breath as teeth bit softly into his neck. It pinched for just a second before a hot tongue darted out. _

"_Oh," John heard his own voice. He opened his eyes and looked around the room – it was an office, but not his, nor one that he recognized. A hand moved down the small of his back and fingertips traced the seam of his trousers before cupping a cheek and squeezing. John grunted as he pressed closer to the body in front of him. _

_He moved his head, tried to see. There were dark curls brushing his cheek, hinting faintly of cigarette smoke – someone who tried to hide the habit – and the faint aroma of food. He'd been cooking, or more likely in a restaurant, just before this. The sound of a groan reverberated through John. _

_It felt wonderful. _

_John tried to bring up the memory from the last time he'd done this – he had a vague recollection of a woman in Birmingham, long before he'd gone to Afghanistan. She'd been fit and he'd bought her dinner beforehand. It had been fun and they'd seen each other a few times afterwards, although it had never been serious._

_But this was different – he hadn't been with a man since university. He hadn't wanted to be. _

_John wound his fingers through soft curls and tried to pull his head back. He wanted to place the face, to know who this man was. He wanted to know who was making him feel this way. It had been so long. _

_There was a noise behind him – a door opening. The front door. It was a dream, he realized. He was dreaming. He pulled on the curls again as a another voice came to him. _Harry_, his mind supplied as the man pulled back. Grey eyes shone at him in the seconds before the dream faded away. _

"Sherlock," John whispered as he opened his eyes. He tried to hold on to the sensations brought on by the dream but they faded away. He frowned at a crashing noise from the other room. _Harry_, he thought again as he sat up and swung his legs over the bed.

He stared at his lap for a moment, a small smile crossing his face. It felt good to have some stirring down there again. It had been noticeably absent since he'd been shot.

There was another crashing noise followed by a loud curse. John sighed as he stood up and moved to the door, rolling his shoulder tentatively. It was stiff from sleeping and he didn't want to have problems with it later. He had a busy day in front of him and uncontrollable pain was not on the agenda.

He opened his bedroom door and made his way slowly down the short hallway. Harry was exactly as he expected to find her, on the floor by the front door with her head leaning back against the wall. _Well_, he thought, _at least she made it inside this time_.

John moved over to her and checked that the door was locked. "Get up," he said as he leaned down with his good arm and tried to help her to her feet. She only had one shoe on and the stockinged foot slid across the smooth tiles. "You could help me out here," he grumbled.

He finally got Harry on her feet, propped against the wall. Her eyes were glassy and she couldn't focus on him. John knew, with a pang, that someone had to help her home, so someone had let her get like this. His sister had started spending time with some truly horrendous people.

He could smell a hint of vomit around her, but she showed no obvious signs of having been sick so he settled on bed instead of the loo. "Take your shoe off," he ordered and her head snapped down to look at her feet. After several second of contemplating, Harry flipped her leg and the shoe went flying off. John shook his head, but settled his arm around her waist and pulled her from the wall. He grunted as her arm landed over his shoulders, but the pain he anticipated didn't come. With the first shaky step she leaned into him and they managed to make it to her room.

* * *

John climbed out of the cab, tossing the man his fare, and stared at the building in front of him. It was smaller than it appeared online, so he suspected the flat would appear smaller too. He didn't think that would be a problem though. He couldn't handle too many more nights picking his sister up of the hall floor. He was too old for that, and so was she. He also held a mild delusion that if he left and there was no one there to take care of her, she might see the error of her ways. Realistically he knew it wouldn't happen that way, but he still hoped.

And this Baker Street flat was ideally located. It the held none of that modern cold steel feel of his other flat and the convenient sandwich shop was a nice touch. Assuming, of course, that the food was edible.

John was taking the first steps towards the door when the sound of a car behind him made him pause. Sherlock stilled when he spotted John and the doctor took the opportunity to quickly look him over. He was dressed casually: jeans and a dark oxford shirt covered by a black coat and grey scarf. He appeared tired but that wasn't surprising. The bag in his left hand seemed to be the last remnant of the morning move.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," John said holding out his hand again. "I hope the move went well."

Sherlock paused for a long moment and John could see the gears turning. "Hello," he finally replied and shook John's hand. "And Sherlock, please."

John could see the surprise; he suspected that Sherlock had managed to convince himself that their previous conversation hadn't taken place. Even John was a bit surprised by it, but he liked the detective, and the man's faults were so obvious that there would be no nasty shocks while sharing a flat.

"I hope the time is convenient," John said and Sherlock nodded moving towards the door.

"Of course. I mentioned you to Mrs. Hudson."

John wondered how that conversation had gone. _Mrs. Hudson, there might or might not be bloke moving in with me. He's a doctor and that's really all I know._

"She seemed excited at the prospect of having a doctor live here. She worries about her ailments."

"Everyone does when there's a doctor around," John chuckled.

Sherlock was just about to insert his key into the lock when the door opened by a slim woman with dyed blond hair.

"Sherlock!" she exclaimed as she held out her arms. Sherlock moved forward easily into her embrace and kissed her on the cheek.

"Mrs. Hudson, may I introduce Doctor John Watson."

Mrs. Hudson took a step back and beamed at John. He offered her his hand and she shook it enthusiastically. "Pleasure, Doctor Watson."

John was just about to reply when Sherlock interrupted him. "This way," he said and headed up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes and John gave her a sweet smile before following.

He hadn't truly known what to expect, but the flat was perfect.

It was an eclectic mix of colors and styles _–_ Sherlock Holmes had more varied taste that John had given him credit for. And, John noticed, even having lived in the flat less than twelve hours Sherlock had already made a mess. John eyed a stack of papers sitting on top of a pile of boxes and Sherlock grabbed them self-consciously.

"Just unpacking," Sherlock offered as an excuse. John nodded and turned in a circle admiring the rest of the space. He loved it.

"Brilliant," he said and Mrs. Hudson broke into a grin. Then John turned his attention to Sherlock and watched a series of thoughts cross the younger man's face. John half expected the detective to refuse him _–_ the flat _was_ lovely, but he hadn't been expecting to share it as evidenced by a hint of anxiousness in the detective's stance. John wondered if he had any financial concerns; he was hardly in good standing with the Yard, after all. Perhaps the fear of unemployment was looming over him and sharing a flat would alleviate some of that.

"Can I see my room please?" he asked and Mrs. Hudson nodded eagerly, pointing up the second set of stairs.

* * *

Sherlock followed John out the front door and they stood on the curb. "Most of my belongings are in storage so I'll have them moved this weekend if that works for you?"

"Sure," Sherlock said pulling his coat tighter around himself. The clouds were coming in and the rain would soon follow. John could feel the pressure change in his shoulder. It would be an unpleasant afternoon. He hated that he might have to take the prescription pain medication to sleep that night. "I have a meeting with my DI this afternoon. Assuming I'm still employed, I expect I'll be working on the weekend."

John chuckled. "I doubt you'll be fired for something so trivial _–_ besides, I'm sure your brother has pulled some of those Mycroftian strings."

Sherlock stiffened, obviously not wanting to discuss his brother. _Interesting, _John thought as he held up hand for a cab. "Are you going to the Yard now?" he asked and Sherlock eyed him before nodding. "Well come on, I have a meeting with Lestrade and his team concerning these suicides." John let his voice trail off, leaving the words dangling like a carrot. He saw the curiosity cross Sherlock's face and then watched it be shaken away.

"It makes no difference, I'll be stuck in Financial Crimes for the immediate future."

"Perhaps," John agreed, climbing into the cab. Sherlock followed him, leaning back into the seat. "New Scotland Yard," John said and the driver nodded. "Being stuck in Financial Crimes doesn't dictate your hobbies, does it? As we will be sharing a flat starting Saturday, maybe we can have dinner together tonight. I'm new to this policing business, so if I share with you what I've learned you'll be able to put it into context for me."

Sherlock turned his head and stared. After a moment a slow smile spread over his lips and John knew he had him.

"I know of an Italian restaurant close to here, Angelo's." Sherlock pulled a long hand out of one pocket and handed John a card. "My mobile is on there. Text me when you're done."

John smiled and relaxed back into the seat. He was already looking forward to it.


	9. Angelo's

"Those will kill you," John said.

Sherlock looked at the cigarette in his hand and nodded. It wasn't like he didn't know that. He dropped the butt to the pavement and ground it out under his shoe. John leaned over and picked it up.

"There's an ashtray right here," he said dropping the butt into it. Sherlock opened his mouth, readying a retort, but there was a smile on the doctor's face. "Shall we go in?" John didn't wait for a reply, he opened the door and stepped inside.

Sherlock spotted Angelo serving a table in the back. The large man was laughing and gesturing wildly with his hands. He looked up and held up a finger when he spotted Sherlock.

"Friend of yours?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded, noticing John looking around the room quickly. The doctor seemed to be taking everything in and Sherlock thought about their conversation the previous day at the hospital. John Watson seemed to know things.

"I arrested him," Sherlock replied. John looked up at him, shocked for a moment, then laughed.

"Naturally," John said, still chuckling as Angelo walked up to them.

"Sherlock!" Angelo said, grabbing Sherlock's arms and planting a kiss on either cheek. "Come, a table in the front, by the window. A happy couple will bring in more happy couples." Angelo was pushing them back towards the front and Sherlock shook his head.

"We aren't–" he started, but Angelo wasn't listening. He was introducing himself to John, and John was shaking his hand. The doctor took the proffered seat and Angelo pushed Sherlock towards the other. "…a couple," he finished.

Sherlock looked at John, expecting some support, but the doctor just picked up the menu.

"Ambiance," Angelo said putting a candle on the table and clapping his hands. "It's on the house," he said looking back and forth between the two men. "Whatever you want. We'll make it special for you!"

"We aren't…" Sherlock started again, but Angelo walked away before he could finish protesting. John laughed and turned to the next page on the menu.

"Bring a lot of your dates here?" John asked, not bothering to keep the smirk off his face.

"Are my dating habits going to be an issue?" Sherlock snapped. John lifted his eyes, the smirk not faltering.

"I have no issues with homosexuality," John said with a hint of something in his voice Sherlock didn't understand. "Nor bisexuality," he added not looking away.

Sherlock frowned as he studied the man across from him. After a moment, John turned back to the menu and Sherlock was almost certain the doctor had been admitting something. He wasn't positive though – the doctor was incredibly difficult to read.

"How's the spaghetti with bolognaise?" John asked, apparently unaware of the awkward moment they were sharing.

"Too sweet," Sherlock responded, to which John nodded. "Angelo puts sugar into it. The lasagna is better, or anything with a white sauce." John nodded again before closing the menu and setting it aside.

"Done," he said folding his hands on the table. A second later Angelo was hovering over them his tiny pad with pencil in hand. They ordered quietly, John selecting a wine for himself and suggesting one for Sherlock.

"I assume you were reinstated," John asked when the wine had arrived.

"Yes," Sherlock said "I'm on probation though. If I'm caught looking into a case that is not mine, or that I am not being consulted on then I'll be terminated immediately." He took a sip of the chardonnay and was surprised to find it palatable. "My DI obviously wasn't thrilled at my being given a second chance, so I suspect your original assessment was correct. My brother has obviously had a hand in this."

John sipped the red wine he had ordered and looked at Sherlock across the table. "Granted, I'm not exactly close friends with your brother, but it seems like it's been beneficial to be so well acquainted with someone so high up in the government. And yet you barely seem able to think about him without getting this look of disgust on your face. I must admit I'm curious as to why."

Sherlock huffed and snatched at a piece of the bread sitting between them. He had no intention of sharing any information on his brother with a man he hardly knew – even if they were somehow now flatmates.

"But then again," John continued, "I guess it can be difficult having an older brother always looking over your shoulder, always second guessing your choices, always thinking you could be doing better." John took a long sip of his wine and Sherlock met his eyes again. "My sister probably has the same opinion of me that you have of Mycroft."

"I doubt that," Sherlock said before he could stop himself.

John just shrugged one shoulder again and turned out the window. The traffic was moving by steadily on the street outside. A slow smiled crossed John's face as he watched it.

"I missed London," he said quietly, nodding to the window. "The sounds, the people, the busyness. I missed it so much in Afghanistan and sometimes it just hits me how much I love this city."

Sherlock looked over his shoulder and then back at John. He appreciated London as well, but he'd spent all of his life in the city. He opened his mouth to agree when John suddenly frowned, not turning away from the window.

"But sometimes, now, I find myself missing Afghanistan, too. The hectic pace, the fast medicine, the people. I met such amazing people there, doing such amazing things. I think sometimes that getting shot while I was there somehow forced a part of me to stay behind. I think that a part of me will always be there."

_Shot?_ Sherlock thought having not given much thought about the doctor's return from Afghanistan. It hadn't occurred to him that the man might have been injured. Surely someone as important as John Watson would have been kept far away from the fighting?

"Your shoulder?" Sherlock said, realizing that explained the odd shrugging. John looked back to him, apparently startled.

"Yes," he said, looking down at his hand. "Nerve damage, a recurring tremor." He sighed and turned back out of the window. "No more surgery for me. It's why I've taken the position at Bart's. Working with the dead is just about the only medicine I'm cut out for. "

That didn't seem likely to Sherlock – surely there was something in between.

John shook his head and forced a smile onto his face, taking a deep breath before looking back at Sherlock.

"So, if you're caught working on an investigation you aren't assigned to, you'll find yourself jobless."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

"Well then, I guess you'll have to work on not getting caught." John reached into his pocket and pulled out a flash drive, handing it across the table. "Here you go, everything they have so far."

Sherlock's fingers closed around the green stick. "How?" he asked. "Why did they give you a copy?"

John chuckled and sipped his wine again. "I'm a smart man, Mr. Holmes. They thought I might be able to see something they were missing. And don't worry, I still have a copy."

Sherlock dropped the stick into his pocket and nodded. "Thank you," he said. John smiled.

"I can give you the highlights if you like, mostly because almost nothing is known. All three were apparent suicides. All three of them died from a combination of poisons orally ingested. None of them showed any signs of suicide beforehand, no notes or good-byes. All three were found in locations where they had no reason to be, in places they had no apparent connection to previously. And there are no similarities, mutual acquaintances, or anything else that seems to connect the three of them. They seem to be chosen completely at random, which it seems makes it very difficult to find the killer or to understand how exactly he's managing to poison them. Lots of interest swirling through the Yard on this one."

"I don't think anyone has seen anything quite like it."

"Well then I look forward to helping you figure it out. I'd get a certain satisfaction out of shutting Donovan up."

Sherlock laughed as Angelo approached with their food. John's eyes grew wide at the large portion of food in front of him. "It looks delicious," the doctor said, setting his napkin in his lap and reaching for his silverware.

Sherlock eyed his own plate of food, but suddenly wasn't hungry. The anticipation of going through the files was starting to make him itch. He'd never had access to all of the information before.

John took a large bite of lasagna. "Oh," he mumbled around the food. "That is delicious." John reached for his wine, gesturing to towards Sherlock's food with his fork. "You should eat, you're going to need the calories with a double work load."

Sherlock poked at his plate of fettuccine. "What if they find out that you've given me this information?" He was glad to have it but he hardly wanted to doctor to pay for his kindness, especially as they were going to be flatmates.

John smiled at him. "I don't intend to tell them, do you? Plus I'm uniquely qualified for this position. I'll get little more than a dressing down, if that. You're the one who is vulnerable, so I suggest you be smarter about how you investigate."


	10. Hints

John heard the sluggish footsteps on the stairs and glanced at the clock. He hadn't really known when to expect Sherlock, but it seemed like he should have been in before eight p.m. John also vaguely wondered if Sherlock would remember he was moving in today. They hadn't actually spoken since their dinner at Angelo's.

The door opened and closed and Sherlock slowly stepped into the kitchen. John looked over his shoulder and noticed the exhaustion dragging down the muscles in the detective's face. There were dark shadows under his startling grey eyes and his suit was wrinkled with continuous wear.

"Hello," John said turning back to the pot simmering in front of him. "I'm just finishing up some beef stew, have you eaten?" There wasn't an immediate answer but after several seconds a loud grumbling filled the room. John smiled as Sherlock's stomach answered the question for him.

John reached into a cabinet and pulled down two of the oversized mugs he'd unpacked an hour ago. He'd been only marginally surprised to see that Sherlock had only bothered to unpack one dish, one cup, and one set of silverware. John had dutifully emptied all of his boxes, and suspected that his would be the items that they used.

"Here," he said turning and handing Sherlock a mug. The detective's face brightened as he sat at the small dining table. After a moment John joined him.

"Do you cook often?" Sherlock asked, tentatively taking a bit of the stew. "This is delicious," he added.

"It's a hobby," John said. They ate in silence for several minutes. John was pleased the detective seemed to be enjoying it. His too-thin frame suggested that he didn't eat enough and probably on an irregular schedule. It was hardly a healthy lifestyle.

"How's your embezzlement case?" John asked.

"What?" Sherlock asked, snapping his head around and looking at John. The doctor almost laughed at the shock on the detective's face but nodded towards a stack of files sitting on the small coffee table. "Oh," Sherlock said as he turned back around. "I was wondering where I left those."

John smiled. "They were on top of the fridge. I figured you might be needing them."

"Did you look through them?" There was a hint of accusation in Sherlock's tone, but John ignored it.

"Yes," he answered simply. "And if the brother is the owner of a green ladder, he's probably your man."

"A green ladder?" Sherlock asked. John found that he enjoyed impressing the detective more so than anyone else he knew. "The marks outside of the warehouse," John answered. "They were green and perfectly placed for a ladder. Obviously Henderson was working with his brother and they climbed through the window after hours to burn the files that would tie them to the missing money. They're smart, but not brilliant. I doubt they've thought to open accounts in Switzerland or in the Caymans. They've more than likely acquired fake identification and opened accounts under those names. I'm sure if the warrant comes through for the brothers' property you'll find those IDs and the money. I suspect you'll make an arrest by Wednesday or Thursday at the latest."

Sherlock stared at him, grey eyes alert despite all the signs of exhaustion. This confirmed to John that Sherlock's sleeping habits were probably as deplorable as his eating habits.

"How…" Sherlock started but trailed off. After a second he held his palms up and sighed. John grinned and sat back in his chair.

"I just notice things. When I was a kid my dad would play games with us, show us things and see how much we could remember. I just started working really hard at it, and before I knew it I was noticing things that nobody else did. It's nothing special, really. I just pay attention."

Sherlock continued to stare him. "That's extraordinary," he said after a moment and John felt himself color slightly – much to his dismay.

"That isn't always the reaction I get - but hopefully this helps."

"I'm sure it will," Sherlock said. "I found the brother suspicious right away, but I couldn't figure out how he was involved."

John smiled, standing and grabbing both mugs. He sat them in the sink and was just about to say something else when he felt the twinge. He automatically cradled his left arm against is his chest and dug the fingers of his right hand in to the counter.

"No," he whispered as the pain shot down his arm. He closed his eyes, grimacing against the onslaught.

"John?" Sherlock said, his voice sounding like a whisper as John's heart started pounding in his ears.

"Fuck," John said. He took a deep breath and tried to swallow down the pain. He straightened his back, not aware that he'd partially curled over the sink as his muscles tightened. He forced his fingers to release the counter before he turned to face Sherlock.

Concern was spread over the detective's face as he pushed his chair back to stand.

"I'm fine," John said to the unasked question. "I'm fine."

He could see the disbelief on Sherlock's face and vaguely wondered just how horrible he looked. He needed to take a pill and go to bed. Sherlock probably wouldn't do the washing up, but perhaps if John asked him to put the rest of the stew in the fridge… the thought vanished as fire shot through his neck.

Sherlock took a step towards him as John gritted his teeth against the pain.

He hated it. He hated the whole thing – the pain, the weakness, both of them being witnessed by someone he hardly knew.

"It'll be fine," John managed, feeling the contractions in his stomach that indicated he was going to be sick. He wouldn't do that here. Sherlock had seen too much already. "I just– I have medicine." He took a step towards the stairs and almost stumbled. John saw Sherlock reach out just as he managed to catch himself on the table. Bed, he needed his bed. The bathroom first, then bed.

"John?" Sherlock asked again, but didn't move as John stumbled past him and up the stairs.

* * *

John padded quietly down the stairs, his throat parched from the pain medication. He'd glanced at the clock as he climbed out of bed and wasn't surprised to see that it was past three in the morning. He was grateful that he'd be able to go back to sleep for a few hours. The pain had left him but the memory of it still made him ache.

It had been a bad one but it wasn't surprising. He hadn't moved any of the boxes into the flat, but he'd certainly done enough unpacking to agitate the injury. He knew better than that.

Having Sherlock see it had hardly been what John wanted – but that was over and if Sherlock asked any questions, John would answer them.

The first thing he noticed when he entered the kitchen was the pot he'd cooked in and both mugs piled neatly in the drainer. John opened the fridge and saw a collection of neatly stacked storage containers holding the leftovers. John smiled, closing the door and reaching for a glass.

He downed one glass of water and then filled it up again before moving into the living room and in the faded light noticed that Sherlock had straightened up in there as well. John looked quietly around the room then headed towards the stairs. As he started to climb a slow smirk crossed his face.


	11. Breakfast

The smell of the bacon and coffee penetrated his dreams. Sherlock rolled over, fighting the urge to open his eyes. He'd had a long few days wrapping up his last case, but finally arrests had been made, confessions had been obtained, and Sherlock had been brought into his DI's office and offered a congratulatory handshake.

"_Brilliant, Sherlock, making the connection with the ladder. What made you think of it?" _Sherlock had just shrugged, not wanting to mention that it wasn't his idea or get John involved in any way. He was a bit surprised over the pride he felt concerning John. He liked the idea that no one knew he had a new flatmate or who that new flatmate was.

There was a lot of talk around the Yard concerning John. Apparently, the doctor was an invaluable addition to the team at Bart's, and a number of important people thought very highly of him.

Mycroft included.

The day after John had moved in, Mycroft had sent Sherlock one of his predictably overbearing text messages.

_A flatmate? John Watson can be an influential contact for you. Don't ruin it, please._

After a few days which had included hot meals, a clean flat, and very interesting conversation, Sherlock had no intention of alienating John. It didn't hurt that John could help Sherlock's career, but the detective found that he genuinely enjoyed the doctor's company. John was smart, obviously, but he was also good natured, easy going, and funny.

Sherlock finally opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. "Mostly," Sherlock whispered. John was mostly good natured, easy going, and funny. Sherlock heard their flat door open and the sound of footsteps on the stairs. He didn't hear the outer door, which usually meant John was stopping at Mrs. Hudson's.

It had become almost a daily ritual between the two of them. Her hip had been bothering her a great deal and John routinely checked up on her. Sherlock glanced at the clock, it seemed unusually for John to be doing it so early on a Saturday morning, especially after the events of the previous night.

Sherlock had come home secretly looking forward to whatever meal John was making for dinner, but the aroma coming down the stairs wasn't as pleasant as usual. When he'd entered the flat he was surprised to see Mrs. Hudson standing at their stove.

"Poor John," she'd said, looking over her shoulder at him. "He came home early with his shoulder bothering him. I'm making him some soup."

Sherlock had nodded, glancing at the stairs. He'd had a momentary urge to climb them and check on the doctor, but pushed the feeling away. He wondered how long Mrs. Hudson would take. Perhaps he'd have Chinese delivered, or maybe Indian from the new place around the corner. But no, he'd have to do takeaway – he didn't want Mrs. Hudson to know he wasn't going to be eating her soup.

"It's a shame," she said, shaking her head. "Doing so much good work and now he has to suff–" She cut herself off as John suddenly appeared on the stairs.

Sherlock had smiled at him, surprised at the glassy eyes and weighed down expression. For John to look so rough, the pain must have been excruciating.

"John, dear, why don't you have a seat, the soup is almost– "

"I'm not hungry," John said, moving past her. The doctor stood in front of the cabinet for a moment before reaching up tentatively for a glass.

"Let me," Mrs. Hudson said, making a move to help.

"I've got it," John replied, cradling the glass against his chest.

"But your shoulder," she said, frowning at him.

"Damn my shoulder!" he'd snapped, the sharpness of his words penetrating the room. Mrs. Hudson took a step back, and Sherlock took a step forward, a surge of anger moving through him.

"I'm sorry," John said immediately, reaching a hand towards Mrs. Hudson before shaking his head. "I'm sorry," he whispered again before walking past them and back up the stairs. The whole thing had occurred so fast that Sherlock could almost convince himself it hadn't happened but the look of shock on Mrs. Hudson's face had confirmed it.

"He's in pain," Sherlock had told her as she'd turned back to the soup.

The sound of footsteps coming upstairs brought Sherlock back to the present. He took a deep breath and the smell of coffee became too much. He stretched, threw the blanket back and headed out the door.

John was sitting at the table, a plate of food in front of him but his eyes were focused on the paper.

"Good morning," Sherlock said tentatively. There was no trace of the glassy eyed man who'd snapped at Mrs. Hudson the previous evening. John looked calm, happy, and pain free.

"'Morning," he said, smiling up at Sherlock before turning back to the paper. "Help yourself," he added gesturing with his fork to the collection of plates sitting on the counter. Eggs, bacon, and pancakes sat ready, along with a piping hot carafe of fresh coffee. Sherlock moved towards that first.

"This is a lot of food," Sherlock said, noticing the proportions were too large for just the two of them.

John shrugged his good shoulder but didn't look up. "I took an apology plate to Mrs. Hudson. My behavior towards her last night was deplorable. She was just concerned about me. The pain was particularly bad yesterday, probably the storms coming in. But anyway, she didn't deserve my anger, so I made her breakfast."

Sherlock watched John another moment before grabbing a plate and helping himself. He had no doubt Mrs. Hudson would have been thrilled at John's gesture, and she was hardly the type of woman to stay angry. But it was unusual to here John talk so casually about his injury – it was unusual for John to talk about his injury at all.

Sherlock took the seat across from John and glanced at the paper. The story was about a footballer involved in an auto accident, the police suspected alcohol was involved.

"You are sort of mentioned in the financial section." John pulled out another section and handing it to Sherlock. "Page three," he added as Sherlock took it.

Sherlock smiled as he read through the very short article, he wasn't mentioned by name no one was, but the 'brilliant deductions mentioned by the investigating officer' were referenced. Everyone who needed to know would know that it had been Sherlock's case.

"Was your DI impressed?" John asked, pushing the paper away and bringing his mug of coffee to his lips.

"Very," Sherlock said, taking a bite of his pancakes. "The information on the green ladder was crucial. Thank you again."

"Of course," John said, waving a hand dismissively.

"It's nice– " Sherlock started but stopped abruptly as John's mobile rang. The doctor looked at it oddly for a moment.

Sherlock saw a picture of a brunette on the screen just before John held the phone to his ear. "Hello?" he answered, standing up and leaving the kitchen. Sherlock stared at the remnants of his breakfast as John's voice floated in from the living room.

"What a surprise," John said and Sherlock thought he sounded happy. There were several moments of quiet as John listened.

"Really?" John asked, sounding genuinely surprised. There was another pause before John let out a little laugh and continued. "That sounds wonderful, I'll be right over."

John came back into the kitchen, his face transformed by a huge grin. "I, um– I have to go out for a bit. Can you clean this up for me, please?" Sherlock looked at the collection of plates and pots and nodded begrudgingly.

"Thanks, mate," John said, slapping Sherlock's shoulder.

"Who—?" Sherlock began but John ignored him, climbing the stairs to his bedroom two at a time.


	12. The Woman

"What are you doing here?"

Sherlock turned to see Molly standing in the hallway carrying a tray of test tubes.

"Um," he said, glancing at the evidence bag in his hand. He was working on a case in which a number of questionable substances had been found – possible drugs connections – and he thought John might be able to help identify them. He wasn't, however, inclined to share that information with Molly. He wasn't inclined to share anything with Molly.

"I'm delivering something to Dr. Watson," Sherlock said, letting his eyes wander towards John's door.

Molly frowned. "You can leave it with me, I can put it in the–"

"No," Sherlock interrupted. "I was instructed to give it only to Dr. Watson. I'll just kno–"

"He's not here," she said, almost glaring at him. "Some woman came by– he went to lunch with her and said he wouldn't be back today."

"Woman?" Sherlock said, cringing at the tone of his voice. He knew Molly was unaware that he and John were living together. John had all but announced that he didn't share personal information with those who worked for him – but Molly seemed distracted by her own jealousy.

"Yes, some pretty brunette, all small and happy. They were laughing up a storm, seemed delighted to see each other." She continued talking, but Sherlock blocked her out. He glanced at the door again and wondered if it was the same woman John had met three nights ago. "He didn't even introduce her," Molly finished and Sherlock looked back at her.

"Good-bye," he mumbled as he turned and headed back toward the lifts. He thought about the woman, and knew it was ridiculous that she was bothering him so. He had no claim on John, and John owed him no explanation or information.

* * *

Sherlock turned the corner, cursing under his breath. Between the delays on the tube and the impossibility of getting a cab, he'd walked almost three miles. He was exhausted from an afternoon combing through tax records with no success. And the inability to get in touch with John had only hampered the investigation. Awaiting results from the actual forensic team was taking too long and Sherlock was certain John could help.

The detective turned the corner onto Baker Street and felt a sense of relief that his dinner and his bed were in reach. He hoped to avoid Mrs. Hudson because she'd been pestering him to help with some boxes on the high shelf in her closet. John was too short to reach them and she insisted that the doctor couldn't do it because of his shoulder. Sherlock just had no desire to. He knew that she'd want to go through them quickly so that he could put them back up. He wasn't in the mood to witness her nostalgia.

He stopped walking just as the door to 221 opened. He glanced at the stairs leading up to the building next to him and suspected he could hide behind them if it was Mrs. Hudson – but it wasn't. A brunette woman walked onto the stoop, followed immediately by John. Sherlock frowned at them, a flash of annoyance moving through him at the realization that the woman had been in the flat. His flat, the one he shared with John.

Sherlock glanced at the small doorstep next to him but didn't move. He was tempted to continue, to interrupt the moment between John and this woman and demand to be introduced. He couldn't bring himself to take a step though, and as the woman wrapped her arms around John's neck and started to laugh, Sherlock was glad he'd stayed still.

She pulled back, resting her hands on John's biceps, and said something else, a smile still alight on her face, before she leaned in and gave John a kiss on the cheek. The sight made Sherlock's stomach tighten, but still he didn't move. After another quick laugh, she stepped onto the pavement and John watched her, smiling, as she headed down the street.

Sherlock focused on her a moment. She was a very attractive woman, long brown hair, easy smile, petite figure, smooth gait. She pulled out her phone out as she started walked, smiling at Sherlock as she spotted him.

"Hi, it's Clara," she said as she moved past him.

_Clara, _Sherlock thought, trying to hear something else about her, but unable to. He stared at the place where she'd moved out of his line of sight for another second then looked back towards the door. He expected John to be standing on the stoop, waiting for him. Instead the door was closed and John was gone. Obviously, he hadn't seen Sherlock standing there.

Sherlock took a deep breath – maybe he was wrong and John had seen him. Maybe the doctor was just inside the door waiting for Sherlock to come in so that he could explain. Surely, there was an explanation for this _Clara._

* * *

"What do you want to do for dinner?" John asked as Sherlock stepped into the flat. The doctor was sitting at the desk, just opening up his laptop. There was still a grin spread across his face and Sherlock didn't miss that John glanced at the window before turning back to his computer.

"Whatever you want," Sherlock said, pulling his coat off and hanging it on a peg. "Good day?" he inquired after a moment, hoping to get John to talk.

"All right," John said, glancing up. "Left work early, had lunch with a friend. You? How's the case coming?"

_Friend, _Sherlock thought as he watched the doctor for a moment, watched his fingers move awkwardly over the keyboard. Hard to believe that John had never learned to type, but his hen pecking certainly indicated otherwise.

"I stopped by Bart's today, actually. I was hoping you could help with the chemical composition of some substances we found in the warehouse, but–"

"I was already gone," John finished, turning back to Sherlock. "Sorry about that. Did you bring them home with you? I can do some basic tests with the equipment I have here."

"No," Sherlock said – although he'd seriously considered it.

"Oh well,." John continued typing. "If you want to bring them around tomorrow, I'll be at the office all afternoon. Although I'm meeting with Lestrade at the Yard in the morning, so I can pick them up from you if you're going to be in."

"Whichever," Sherlock said. "How about Indian?" he asked after a moment and John shook his head.

"Had that for lunch. Chinese?"

_Indian, _Sherlock thought and wondered which restaurant they'd gone to. Surely not the one he and John ordered takeaway from?

"Chinese is fine. Your friend–" Sherlock started to say, having no idea what he was actually going to ask. Fortunately John interrupted him.

"Good," the doctor said, closing the laptop with a grin and standing. "I'll get the menu."


	13. A Lady in Pink

Sherlock stared at the plastic container in front of him. The contents smelled good – they always did – but he was getting tired of eating alone. John had been on the overnight shift for almost two weeks.

"I can't expect those who work for me to accept the shift without complaint if I'm unwilling to do it myself," he'd said.

Sherlock had just stared at him, finding the logic sound but ridiculous. His DI certainly never worked overnights, just like she never took the weekend on call shifts. She was the DI, she didn't have to. John was in the same position, but naturally with John being John, he wasn't going to ask anyone to do anything he was unwilling to do.

Sherlock sighed, digging the fork into the noodle casserole and was thoroughly unsurprised that it was delicious. John would prepare dinner for himself and always left a portion in the fridge for Sherlock when he got home. The first few days had been filled with Sherlock's favorites, but they had since branched out into several new dishes, none of them disappointing.

Actually, other than the fact that he missed his regular interactions with John, very little about his life was disappointing. He'd made three more fairly high profile arrests with John's help. He no longer felt like the complete outcast in his department. And Lestrade and his team were getting a lot of heat both from inside of the department and from the press. There had been almost no progress in the forced suicide cases. Answers were in demand and Lestrade's team didn't have them. John had dutifully brought home every new piece of information and Sherlock had added it to the series of case files he'd created, but there had been no new information in weeks. John had pushed the case back off to Molly pending any new developments and was taking on several other cases that neither of them found particularly interesting.

It was obvious to Sherlock that John was hardly stimulated by the work he was doing. Occasionally the doctor would get a case that interested him but he would always figure it out quickly and then become bored again. And there seemed to be a correlation between John's boredom and the pain in his shoulder. Sherlock considered bringing it up to John but had decided against it.

He also suspected the John's boredom was leading to the more frequent meetings with _Clara. _Sherlock had spotted the small Boots bag on the John's chair when he got home and had peaked inside to see a collection of perfumes, make-up, and other female things. Sherlock wondered if they were going to be kept in their bathroom. As far as he knew Clara hadn't been back in the flat since he'd seen her, but John had gone out with her several times. Well, John hadn't said he was going out with her but Sherlock assumed. And more than once John had come home with the faint smell her perfume.

Sherlock found it almost insulting that John never even mentioned the woman by name. Sometimes he'd have lunch or dinner with a friend. Once he went to the pub with his mate, although truthfully Sherlock couldn't be certain Clara was the mate John had met up with. And then there'd been the overnight stay in Wales. Upon John's return, Sherlock had overheard a conversation and Clara referred to by name. She'd been on the trip as well. The thought had made Sherlock's stomach ache.

Sherlock pushed the container away and reached for his mobile. He was going to text John, find out if there was an y news. He knew John would notify him as soon as possible if anything truly interesting came through the lab, but texting was the only way to see if John was busy – and the only way Sherlock could see to broach the subject of the Boots bag.

He waited for a few minutes and when there was no reply, he knew John was in the middle of something.

Sherlock quickly washed his dish and put it away; it was the least he could do considering John cooked for him. He stripped out of his suit and pulled on a t-shirt and jeans. He was caught up on all of his work and planned on spending the night looking over the forced suicides case again. He hoped that between John and himself they would find the elusive link that tied all three together and stop a killer. So far they were having no more luck that Lestrade and his team.

Sherlock settled on the couch with his laptop. His previously random organizational techniques had been more streamlined because of a new database program that John had introduced him to. He opened the file of the first victim, Patterson, and was reading it through when his phone beeped. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, realizing he'd left the phone in his room. He sighed, considered getting up, but decided to wait. It beeped a second time but he was almost done with Patterson, but it was probably just John responding to him.

A few minutes later there was a third beep. Sherlock finished the last paragraph, frowning as he walked down the hall. It was unlike John to text repeatedly if he didn't get a response, and if it was important he would have called. Sherlock grabbed his mobile off the dresser and stared at the three messages on his screen, all from John.

The first was an address in east London. Sherlock was very well acquainted with the streets of the city but couldn't immediately bring up what was there. It was, he thought, a group of tenements, most of them being torn down or remodeled in part of the city overhaul for the upcoming Olympics. If John was in the area it must be for a case.

The second text message was simple. _Come at once, if convenient. _Perhaps it wasn't a case; John would hardly invite him along in those circumstances, especially if it was a murder. John took careful measures to ensure no one knew he was giving Sherlock information.

The third text message was equally surprising. _If inconvenient, come anyway._

* * *

Sherlock spotted the blue lights bouncing off the buildings as the cab turned the corner.

"Here's fine," he told the driver.

He moved slowly through the press of onlookers, spotting Lestrade on his mobile next a SOCO. Donovan was talking to several of the patrol officers who were putting up the yellow police tape. Sherlock slouched, not wanting to stand out among the crowd.

He pulled out his own mobile and sent a text to John, letting the doctor know he was here_. _ Donovan stepped away, moving back towards Lestrade, and Sherlock took the opportunity to slip closer to the tape. He didn't recognize the patrol officers so he suspected they wouldn't know him. His mobile vibrated in his hand.

_Out in a second, _the message said and a few moments later, Sherlock heard John's voice.

The doctor walked out of the building nearest them. It used to be a rather beautiful house, but had obviously been turned into flats and had long since been abandoned. John was wearing one of the blue plastic crime scene suits and was pulling off latex gloves while talking to someone else Sherlock didn't recognize. As soon as John moved into the pool of police cars he started searching the crowd, spotting Sherlock almost immediately.

"Let him through," John said to the patrol officer. Sherlock was raising the yellow tape when Donovan appeared next to John.

"What's are you doing here, freak?" she asked. Sherlock opened his mouth to respond but John beat him to it.

"Shut up, Donovan," John said. "I asked him to join us. I need a competent detective to help me, not one whose judgment is as questionable as yours."

"Dr. Watson," Lestrade said, walking over.

"In a minute," John replied, lifting the tape for Sherlock to duck under.

"What are you talking about?" Donovan demanded. "I earn—"

"Yes, whatever you say. Come on, Sherlock, I need your help."

Sherlock glanced at Donovan as he fell into step behind John and struggled not to smirk. He'd never seen the doctor be deliberately rude before – it was surprising. Lestrade was fighting grin as he fell into step with them.

"There's been another one," John said as they headed back towards the building. "I'm going to go through what I know and I want to you to put it together for me. You've show a propensity for analyzing information–"

They were about to step through the door when a SOCO stepped in front of John. "This isn't a good idea, Dr. Watson."

John took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Anderson, I don't think you'd know a good idea if it slapped you across the face." John turned back and looked at Donovan letting his eyes trail down her body. "How long has Anderson's wife been out of town?" he asked her.

"Um," she stammered. "I don't—"

"What?" Anderson interrupted.

"Your deodorant," John said looking back at Anderson. "I can smell it on you," he glanced at Donovan, "and on her. Oh, but let me guess, she just ran out and you were kind enough to loan her some, right?

Lestrade barely managed to swallow down a chuckle and Sherlock didn't even try, grinning at Donovan as he followed John inside. The sight of her looking completely pole-axed would be burned forever in his memory.

"It's a woman," John said as they began to climb the stairs. "Dead a few hours. She obviously travelled in to London this morning from somewhere. There are supposed to be people looking for the missing suitcase."

"There are," Lestrade said, "although there is no evidence that she was travelling—"

John rolled his eyes and looked at Sherlock as they reached the top landing. "Umbrella. No rain today in London so she came from somewhere where it rained this morning. We should start in the UK." Sherlock pulled out his mobile and started searching through the regional weather reports. He felt John smile next to him.

"Now," John said as he moved into one of the room. Sherlock glanced up at the body and the word written next to it. _Rache_. He could puzzle that out after he found out where it had been raining that morning.

"Going from the state of her ring," John began, "she was obviously in a very unhappy marriage…"


	14. Fingers

"Of course there's something, Inspector! A woman doesn't come to London with no bag, no phone, and no identification." Sherlock looked up from his computer to see John pacing in front of the fireplace.

"Just because you haven't found it doesn't mean it's not there." John pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at for a second. There was the quiet hum as Lestrade's voice came out of the device.

"Listen, Greg," John said, putting the phone back against his ear and clearly interrupting, "I've done my part. The post mortem is done, the toxicology report has been rushed, and you'll have the results as soon as they are done, but it _is_ the same poison. This is the same killer, and if you can't find out where this woman came from or who she is, you have no hope of finding your suspect. Think about that." John rang off and tossed the phone onto the chair. Sherlock noticed that it landed on the Boots bag that hadn't been moved. No time for Clara during the case.

"Damn it," John said, leaning against the back of his chair. The doctor looked stiff and he was shifting his neck side to side in the way that usually indicated his shoulder was bothering him. Sherlock hoped it wouldn't get bad; it was becoming very difficult for him to watch the doctor suffer with the injury.

"You need to try and relax," Sherlock said, knowing the words weren't welcome but also knowing the tension would be worse. He glanced at the screen one last time before swallowing hard and speaking. "Have you considered massage therapy?"

John's head snapped up.

"Wha–?"

"Not as a cure," Sherlock interrupted, holding up a hand. "I understand that the injury isn't going to get better." John glared at him, the sense of anger almost palpable. For a moment, Sherlock considered dropping it. The detective knew that it truly wasn't any of his business, but he also accepted that he didn't want to continue to watch his flatmate suffer.

"Listen," he continued, setting the laptop aside. "You notice things – observe, as you put it. You're good at it, brilliant even. I'm good at research, you've obviously noticed that. I'm _very_ good at navigating through information to identify what I need. I was only curious to see if there were some pain management techniques that you might not have come across. I know that pain management isn't always a medical priority. I thought that I might be able to help."

John glared for another moment before relaxing. He let out a sigh and nodded. "I'm sorry," he muttered, letting his left arm stretch out slowly. The worst of the pain seemed to have faded. "I just don't think it will do me much good now."

Sherlock nodded and reached over closing the laptop. "Okay," he said, bringing up the missing persons reports he was going through. He wouldn't push it. It was John's decision.

Sherlock's fingers on the keyboard was the only sound punctuating the silence that descended on the room. He could feel John's eyes still on him, but the detective refused to look up. After a long few moments, John cleared his throat.

"You've read up on this?" he asked, and Sherlock looked up. John was opening and closing his left hand, trying to work out stiffness or pain.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "The techniques seem relatively simple. Based on my research many people have had some success with them – but as a pain management tool only."

John didn't turn, but nodded, staring at his fist opening and closing. Sherlock wondered what it felt like. Did it ever feel normal?

"Do you think you could try one?" John asked quietly. Sherlock shook his head, surprised by the request. "I'm sorry?" he managed, glancing at John's shoulder and then back to the doctor's face. "I've found the name of a local therapist–"

"I mean, do you think that you could try?" John turned to look at him. "You said it doesn't seem complicated. If I think it's something that might be viable then I'll seek out a professional, but I don't want to waste time or money on something else that isn't going to work."

Sherlock nodded; that seemed logical, so he didn't know why he was so hesitant. He wasn't sure he'd ever been that close to John. He tried to remember if he'd ever touched the doctor other than to shake his hand. He didn't think he had. He was certain he'd remember.

"Ah–" Sherlock glanced at the closed laptop. "Yes, all right," he said, standing as John moved to sit in the chair. The Boots bag and the phone were unceremoniously thrown into Sherlock's chair. Sherlock stretched his back, even though he didn't need to, and then his fingers.

He felt John's eyes on him as he closed the distance between them, but he didn't look at the doctor's face. Instead, Sherlock focused on the injured shoulder. He brought up a mental image of the example video on the website, and placed his fingers right where John's neck met his shoulder.

The cotton of his shirt was cool, but the skin underneath was warm. Sherlock pinched lightly and John's head tilted away giving him better access.

"Let–" Sherlock trailed off, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat and continued. "Let me know if it hurts or is uncomfortable. The pressure tolerance seems to vary person to person."

"I will," John said, relaxing noticeably. Sherlock swallowed hard again and started to move his fingers in small circles. He could feel the stiffness in the muscles and he could feel it release slowly under his touch. The detective brought his other hand up and mimicked the motions on John's good shoulder, allowing his fingers to increase the pressure just a fraction, and felt John's muscles respond almost immediately.

He had a momentary flash of triumph and let his thumbs move towards the base of John's neck. The doctor stiffened and let out a quiet moan. The sound was unexpected and Sherlock immediately recognized it as pain, but John let his head fall forward – he was being encouraged to continue.

Sherlock stilled for a moment though, his fingers feeling unsure in their grip. It suddenly occurred to him the he couldn't remember the last time someone – not only John – had been so close to him, not necessarily physically, but just so close. The doctor suddenly seemed to be invading him, his thoughts, his feelings. The points where Sherlock was touching John were like little beacons sending signals throughout the detective's body.

He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the doctor, tried to think of Clara, that young beautiful woman in John's life. He couldn't bring up her face; he couldn't imagine what she looked like. Sherlock took a deep breath and told himself that if he just kept up the massage for a few more seconds John would be convinced, Sherlock would have won, and it would be over. Sherlock would go back to his chair, and the physical distance would curb the sensations running through the his body.

He liked John. They were flatmates. Friends. That was all.

And there was Clara.

The doctor, apparently lost in the sensation, seemed unaware of the changes in the room. Sherlock gritted his teeth and struggled to remember the graphics on the website. He brought up an image of thumbs moving up a neck and started to do that. He felt the edge of John's collar as he moved his thumbs across the doctor's shoulders and up his neck, but before his brain could tell him to stop, he'd moved on, grazing John's hairline.

The skin of John's neck was so smooth and warm to the touch, and the fine dark blond hairs soft as they brushed over Sherlock's fingers.

"Oh," Sherlock said as his fingers started to quiver. He stopped abruptly and John leaned his head back. Sherlock could feel the sharp blue eyes examining him, noticing everything. They always noticed everything.

Sherlock swallowed hard and took a step back. The loss of contact bolted through him like lightning, but he forced the feelings down and took a deep breath.

"See, easy," he managed, his voice sounding nothing like his own. "So easy you can seek a professional or– or I don't know, have your friend do it."

"I'm sorry," John said, standing up. As the doctor turned to face him Sherlock's eyes darted to John's lips. "My friend?"

Sherlock forced himself to meet John's eyes. "The woman," Sherlock began before faltering – they hadn't talked about Clara. John didn't know he knew about Clara. He glanced at the Boots bag. "Clara."

"Clara?" John asked, looking back at Sherlock. "Clara," he repeated, something odd in his voice. Sherlock managed to meet his eyes again. "Clara," John said for third time, a grin crossing his face.

"What?" Sherlock demanded, feeling his cheeks go red.

John looked at him again, blue eyes shining with mirth – and something else. Something that sent shivers up Sherlock's spine.

"You think Clara and I–?" John took a step towards him. Sherlock didn't have to look over his shoulder to know that there was a bookcase behind him. He didn't have anywhere to go. John was so close. He felt panic welling in his throat before John's words finally broke through.

What did he mean? Obviously, Sherlock had seen them. He took another step back, feeling the wood shelves solidly in his back. He was trapped. And he was sure that with just a few more steps he'd be tasting John, and that was potentially wonderful.

"Clara is–" John began but didn't finish as the mobile next to the Boots bag rang, interrupting the moment and catching both of their attention.


	15. Evidence

_Nothing,_ John thought, pushing away from the counter. His eyes ached from hours of sitting at the microscope. All for naught. There was nothing anywhere in her case. The clothes appeared to be untouched – John wasn't certain their killer had even opened the bag before dumping it. The suitcase would have led them to her identity if a missing person report out of Cardiff hadn't done that about ten minutes before a patrol officer found it.

John leaned his head back and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. He was so exhausted. He sighed and looked up at Sherlock sitting across the room. The detective had spent the best part of two hours working on the victim's laptop. It was buried on the bottom of the bag and showed no evidence of having been touched, but Sherlock had insisted on going over it. Anderson had tried to protest, but John had simply dismissed him. That man really was lowering the IQ of the whole city.

"Anything?" John asked, but Sherlock didn't look up from his phone. The sight of the lanky detective almost folded over the small device while his long fingers worked diligently on the screen was entertaining. He seemed permanently attached to the device, but in a way that John found endearing, not annoying.

Sherlock looked up suddenly, apparently realizing that he had been asked a question.

"What?" Grey eyes darted to the laptop and then back to John. "No, nothing, sorry. I just– I don't know."

John nodded as Sherlock looked back towards the phone. Almost instantly a crease formed between the detective's dark brows. John's fingers twitched – the urge to push that wrinkle away was overwhelming. He wanted to put his lips there. He wanted to feel the skin smooth out under his mouth, to feel all of Sherlock's attention focus onto him.

As John continued to watch, Sherlock's sat the mobile next to the laptop and started typing. "Rache," he said under his breath.

"It means 'revenge' in German," John said. "If memory serves."

"It does," Sherlock said, "I checked, although that doesn't fit. Or make sense, quite frankly."

"I'm sorry?" John asked, wondering if Sherlock had stumbled onto something. The detective just shook his head, still staring at the screen. "No, not that either." He partially closed the laptop's lid. "I had an idea. She has a tracking program. I thought I might be able to guess the password, but I can't. I have access to a few cracking logarithms…"

He trailed off and glanced at John. The doctor smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He trusted Sherlock not to do anything to jeopardize the case. And what Lestrade didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

John stood. He had approved the overtime and needed to see if his people in the lab had finished up the toxicology reports yet. The sooner he got confirmation it was the same killer the sooner Lestrade would leave him alone.

The doctor stretched the muscles in his lower back, feeling the tension from the case and the hours at the microscope ease away. Sherlock turned his attention back to his mobile, and John let his mind wander back to the massage. The detective had been near terror when he'd made the suggestion, although truthfully John was surprised it had taken him so long. He'd seen the way Sherlock had been looking at him, particularly when he was in pain. It was obvious the detective had a method he wanted to try. And while it annoyed John, he couldn't muster up the same amount of anger he felt towards everyone else. That probably had something to do with how Sherlock looked at him the rest of the time.

The dilating pupils and slight increase in pulse had been a wonderful discovery on John's part. He'd been delighted to see the signs that Sherlock was as attracted to him as he was to Sherlock. Those had been followed by the small smiles when Sherlock didn't know John was looking. And on more than one occasion John had all but caught the detective staring at him lost in thought, or fantasy, or whatever else went on in that beautiful, curly haired head.

But John had decided to be patient. He knew in some respects he intimidated Sherlock, and he didn't want that to be an issue. It was important to John that Sherlock be completely comfortable with everything. So John waited. And waited. And waited. It had taken every ounce of John's self-control not to burst into laughter when he'd finally realized Clara was a factor. Clara.

John hadn't shared much with Sherlock about his life. Sherlock knew he had a sister, knew her name, and that she was a lawyer. The detective didn't know that Harry was an alcoholic – a stumbling drunk of an alcoholic, if John were being truthful. Sherlock also didn't know she was a lesbian and in the middle of a divorce. So without all of the information it was only natural that Sherlock would jump to the wrong conclusion about Clara's role in his life.

The first phone call had been a joyous one: Clara telling him that Harry had contacted her and that she was checking herself into a rehabilitation program in Wales. John had been elated as well, and had met Clara at Harry's flat to help search for and dispose of all of Harry's hidden bottles. They'd found an alarming number of them and they sat in Harry's disgusting kitchen and dumped out each and every one.

It wasn't until the next morning, feeling somewhat accomplished as he came down to breakfast, that John saw a flash of jealousy on Sherlock's features. It had taken a moment for the doctor to figure it out, but once he did it took all of his energy not to throw himself at Sherlock and laugh hysterically.

It had been the right decision. The day that he and Clara had gone to lunch had been the icing on the cake. John had watched Clara walk down the street and spotted the tall man failing miserably to hide behind the next stoop. John had pretended not to see, wanting Sherlock to retain his dignity. But based on the detective's face you'd think that he'd walked in on a laborious love making session and not two friends simply saying good-bye.

John continued being patient though. And if he was being honest, he found it hilarious the way Sherlock just pretended that Clara didn't exist. Anyone else, if curious, would simply ask. It was fascinating for John to watch Sherlock's internal struggle, especially the growing acceptance of his feelings.

It had most definitely been worth the wait. If the patrol officers had just take a bit longer to find the suitcase then the evening would have ended nearly perfectly. Instead there was unfinished business between the two of them, but it was good business and John could feel the anticipation of it tingling just underneath his skin. And if the toxicology report was done, he could probably justify going home again for the night.

"I'm going to run down to the pathology lab," John said, closing the distance between himself and Sherlock. He rested a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, tightening his fingers gently. The detective turned his head to stare at the point of contact despite the awkward angle. The sight made John smile, and he squeezed the bony shoulder. "Do you want me to bring you something back up? Tea? Coffee? When they're done we can probably go. We can take the laptop home and you can set up the cracking software there."

Sherlock met his eyes. The detective was listening to John's words, but clearly the point where they were touching was distracting him. He managed a confused shake of his head – he didn't want anything. John wasn't surprised. He let his fingers trail up a fraction, and as his thumb touched Sherlock's neck, his flatmate's eyes fluttered closed.

"All right then. I'll be back in a few minutes, hopefully we can go home." Sherlock nodded, letting out a long sigh as John broke the contact. There was a world a promise in that sigh and the anticipation was starting to work its way up John's spine.

"I'll be here," Sherlock said, turning back to the laptop. He was staring at the screen again but didn't fool the doctor; he could see the slightly altered posture, the deliberately elongated neck. Sherlock was trying to make himself look taller, more attractive. He was unconsciously peacocking and John loved it.

"Oh," John said, an idea occurring to him as he reached the door.

Sherlock looked up again, the grin on his face having nothing to do with the case. John's knees felt wobbly at the sight.

"Lestrade said she had a daughter. Perhaps she was writing Rachel, instead of Rache, and just didn't finish it."

The grin didn't fade, but something sparked in his grey eyes as Sherlock looked back at the screen.

* * *

R-a-c-h-e-l. Enter. Almost instantly the tracking program began to run. A feeling of triumph swelled in Sherlock's chest. When John came back he could show him this. They could track her phone; the killer might still have it.

Sherlock glanced at his own phone. He'd sent text messages to her number and wondered now if that was a good decision. If the killer did have it, then he would question why Sherlock was sending messages to the victim's phone. He wasn't on the case. Perhaps he should have discussed it with John first.

Well it was done now, no point in worrying over it. He turned his attention back to the tracking program. The phone was still in London, but the system was still searching for a more precise location. Sherlock sighed; it potentially could take several minutes and he wasn't sure he wanted it to find anything now, especially if the toxicology tests were finished. John said they could go home when they were done.

The idea of going home with John was exciting and slightly frightening at the same time. Sherlock was certain his entire world had been turned upside down in the last few hours. He was still confused about several things, including John's exact relationship with Clara. But he wasn't confused about his feelings for John anymore, and he was pretty sure John felt the same way.

His phone beeped.

_Your cab's arrived. Hurry before it's too late. _

Sherlock frowned.

It was from the victim's phone.

A joke, he thought – her phone might have turned up in the hands of a homeless person or some kid. How would a cab driver know where to pick him up? He hadn't mentioned anything about that in the text–

He glanced at the tracking program and then back at his phone.

Cab. _Cab_. He stared at the word and all of a sudden all of the pieces fell into place in his head. What all of the victims had in common.

A cabbie.

Sherlock looked at the door where John had gone. He had no idea how long the doctor would be, especially if he stopped for some of the coffee or tea that he'd offered to Sherlock.

And Sherlock wanted to be sure. He had to be sure.

He took a deep breath, dropping his mobile onto the counter and grabbing his coat off the hook as he headed out the door.


	16. Realizations

"They're just finishing the tests now–" John trailed off. He stood in the doorway and looked around the lab. He frowned and glanced behind the door. He backed out into the hall and looked both ways. No Sherlock. The realization that the detective could just have gone to the loo or down to John's office crossed the doctor's mind, but neither of those felt right, and he'd made a career out of trusting his gut.

"Sherlock," he called as he made his way over to where his flatmate had been working, stopping halfway there when he spotted the detective's mobile abandoned on the desk.

* * *

"What's your name?" the cabbie asked. Sherlock met the man's eyes in the mirror and could read nothing in them. There was no hint of the monster underneath.

"Sherlock Holmes," he answered, the name feeling awkward on his tongue. He realized too late that he should have lied, but thought that it probably didn't matter. He leaned back and tried to notice things, to observe the way John always did. He spotted a mobile phone on the dashboard and recognized it immediately: her phone, pink case and all, sending its signal to the skies where it was being traced. He took a deep breath and hoped like hell John would look at the tracking program and call Lestrade – and that the cabbie wouldn't turn it off.

"DI? Sergeant? Or maybe you're a nobody?" the man asked. "Well, it won't matter after tonight. I've never heard of you. Naturally, I've been following this investigation very closely."

"Naturally," Sherlock said, trying to swallow, but his throat was dry.

"There was some concern when that new doctor was hired at Bart's. I was testing him with the latest, the woman, seeing how far he'd get. Even at the scene they seemed to defer to him, but then you showed up. They've never brought anyone else in before."

"No," Sherlock said, trying to bring up the image of that crime scene. There had been dozens of people about. He couldn't pinpoint this man, couldn't remember seeing him. He hadn't been paying attention and knew that he should have been. Criminals often came back and watched the case unfold. He wondered if John had been watching. He wondered if John would recognize the cabbie.

"I followed you, of course, knowing that you wouldn't notice."

"Who notices a cab?" Sherlock inserted.

"Exactly." Sherlock met the man's eyes again and saw the smile there. He was enjoying it, which was an obvious conclusion. He was a serial killer, of course he was enjoying it. "I was just about to give up. I'd agreed to wait five more minutes outside the Baker Street flats, thought maybe you chaps had gone to bed. Four minutes in, you and that doctor walked out. He looked satisfied; you looked pensive. I knew you'd found something. And then your annoying text messages. That really was rather juvenile, Sherlock."

Bile filled the back of Sherlock's throat and his fingers curled into the seat next to him. He'd heard the doors lock, and glancing at the mechanisms on the door told him they'd been made inoperable. Sherlock took a deep breath and tried to hold it. He wanted to slow his heart. It was slamming against his ribs, pounding in his ears. He needed to calm down. He needed to think.

Where were they going? He looked out the window and tried figure it out. He didn't recognize the street so he started to pay attention to the signs as they passed. He stared at the skyline, trying to see something familiar, trying to orient himself in the city.

Nothing. He couldn't spot anything.

"Don't try anything stupid," the cabbie said. Sherlock looked up front again. The man was holding the gun up. It was dark and Sherlock couldn't make out too much about the weapon. He hadn't actually seen a gun since he'd been in training.

"Never," Sherlock said. He needed to keep the man talking. He needed information. "I'm just enjoying the ride, trying to figure out where we're going."

The cabbie laughed. The sound sent a chill down Sherlock's spine and he fought the urge to shiver.

"I bet you are," the man said. "But I think you'll be surprised. Let's just say that I don't think anyone will find you until Monday morning, unless they know where to look."

Sherlock glanced at the phone. He hoped they'd know where to look long before then.

"I'm interested to see how you do it," Sherlock began. His voice sounded nothing like him, but he kept going anyway. "How are you going to force me to take the poison? How do you make someone kill himself?"

The man chuckled. "You'll get your answers sooner than you expect. We're here."

Sherlock looked out of the windscreen at two matching buildings. The cabbie got out in a flash and made his way to Sherlock's door.

"Inside now," he said, pointing the gun at Sherlock and moving out of the way.

* * *

John stared at the tracking program. The phone had appeared on the grid several seconds ago and the signal was moving. He zoomed the map out and studied the surrounding area, trying to determine where they could be going. Nothing stood out. Nothing made immediate sense.

John took a deep breath. He needed to stay calm. He wouldn't find Sherlock in time if he rushed this.

He grabbed Sherlock's mobile off the bench and started going through the text messages. "Idiot," he said, seeing the messages that Sherlock had sent to the victim's mobile. The detective was all but taunting the serial killer. John mentally berated himself – he should have been paying closer attention to the detective. He should have watched what Sherlock was doing.

John scrolled through the messages again, stopping on the only one that was incoming. He read it three times, studying the syntax and word choice. _Your cab has arrived. Hurry before it's too late. _It wasn't until the third time through that he paid attention to the words.

"_Idiot!_" he said again, slamming a palm into his forehead. "A cabbie. A bloody cabbie!"

* * *

Sherlock settled on the other side of the table as instructed. The cabbie smiled at him again, looking almost kind.

"Good, Mr. Holmes. Well done. Now," the cabbie reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bottle. He set it on the table and sat down on the bench opposite of Sherlock. He pointed the gun at Sherlock's face, "pick a pill, Mr. Holmes. Your chances are fifty-fifty. You take one and I'll take the other. Let's see if you can be the first person to beat me."

Sherlock stared that the gun. Noticed the metal casing, the area behind the trigger. He let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

* * *

John slipped as he reached his office door. He went down on his knee and pain shot through his hip. He groaned but didn't miss a beat as he struggled back to his feet. He glanced at the laptop tucked under his arm, verifying quickly that it hadn't hit the floor too. He tapped his pocket and still had Sherlock's mobile. He pulled it out and held it tightly in his fingers for a moment. He needed to leave it here.

He kicked his door open and dropped the mobile on his desk, reaching into his other pocket to deposit his own phone next to Sherlock's. He made sure they were both on and pushed them aside. He sat the laptop down and fumbled with his keys for a minute before sinking to the floor next to his desk's drawers.

His knee ached as he unlocked the bottom drawer and pulled out the miniature safe. It was heavy in his hands as he moved it to the floor. He'd refused to think about why he'd kept his service pistol, knowing perfectly well that it was illegal and that nothing good would come from having it. He hadn't brought it to Baker Street because he didn't like the idea of it being in his home, being where he slept. He was now thankful for having it, and having stored it at Bart's. He had no doubt that he was going to need it either to help Sherlock or kill the man who'd hurt him.

And John had no doubt that he'd kill the cabbie if need be. He pulled his jacket on and put the gun inside the pocket, glancing down making sure it wasn't obvious before reaching for the laptop again. He was back out of the door less than a minute after walking through it.

* * *

"I'm a police officer," Sherlock said, feeling the smile tug at the edge of his lips. The cabbie seemed confused by this and Sherlock's smile grew. "I know a real gun when I see one and that," he said reaching for it. The cabbie pulled it back, "isn't one."

Instead of being shocked or even surprised the cabbie just smiled. "You've got me," he said, holding it out again and pulling the trigger. A small flame erupted from the end, filling the space between them with the slight odor of butane. After a moment the flame went out and the cabbie sat the fake pistol on the table.

"At least you'll be more interesting," he said. He reached for the bottle and popped the plastic top off with his thumb. It went flying, the sound of it landing echoing through the quiet room.

"Nothing will be more interesting," Sherlock hissed, resisting the urge to snatch the bottle and throw it away. "You can't force me to play your game. I've seen your face, I know what you do. You're caught."

The cabbie laughed again and the chills returned. Sherlock stood and glanced at the door. He hadn't brought his own mobile; in retrospect that wasn't a good idea. He needed to call John and Lestrade. The building had to have a landline. He was pretty sure the place was a school, but hadn't been paying enough attention. Realizing he still wasn't entirely sure where he was made him pause. What would he tell John? He'd dial 9-9-9 instead. They'd trace the call, send help.

"I won't talk," the cabbie said, pushing the two pills across the table..

"You'll talk eventually," Sherlock said. "The CPS will make you a deal to avoid a trial or–"

"There won't be a trial." He stopped moving the pills and folded his hand on the edge of the table. "You see, Mr. Holmes, I know one thing that all of you detectives have in common. You like information, being able to bring justice, and solving the puzzle." He glanced back at the pills. "If you don't take one of the pills then you'll never know why. You'll never know who orchestrated this."

"Who?" Sherlock echoed.

"Oh there's most definitely a who," the man repeated. "I'm a dead man, Mr. Holmes. Cancer. Four months. If you walk out of that door, I'll take these pills. If you remove these, I'll take the others in my pocket. I'll be dead before you get back."

Sherlock stood taller, and the man chuckled again. "Good idea, beat it out of me. Police brutality. I'm an old man with cancer. If you assault me I'll sue you. There's no physical evidence that I've committed these crimes and only your word that I've brought you here. It's easy enough to explain my fingerprints on everything if I insist that your overzealousness to solve the case led us here, alone. Just how solid is your reputation? Who do you think they'll believe? You or an ailing father?"

The words gave Sherlock pause; the cabbie was elderly and it certainly wouldn't look good if Sherlock attacked him. Despite his recent successes his reputation at the Yard was still far from perfect. But there was something in the tone, something in the look. This man couldn't possibly know anything about him. He'd asked all the questions on the cab ride over – but there was something in the cabbie's face that made Sherlock believe the whole thing had been an act.

"So," the cabbie said. "If you want to know, if you want me brought to justice for the families of those victims, and glory for you, then you'll take a pill."

"And if I die? What good is that?" This was ridiculous. Sherlock needed a phone, he needed the police – well, more police.

"It takes two minutes to die, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock glanced back and the cabbie snatched one of the pills. Sherlock reached for his hand, but was too late. It was in his mouth and swallowed.

"Take the pill and I'll answer all of your questions. Hell, find a phone and I'll confess to the person on the other end. In two minutes I'll either be fine or dead, but I guarantee I'll be silent unless you take your medicine. And if I'm silent your precious John Watson will never fully understand the danger he's in."


	17. Loaded

The older man stumbled backwards, clutching at his shoulder, before falling over the bench, the crack of his head hitting the tile resonating in the room.

In Sherlock's mind it took the cabbie several minutes to collapse, but when the detective turned to the window there were still fragments along the outer edges falling from the frame and pieces skittering across the floor. He was frozen for a moment, confused. He looked back at the cabbie, who let out a guttural moan, and then back at the window.

Sherlock took a tentative step toward the cabbie, watching the blood seep between his fingers and drip onto the floor.

_Shot_**, **Sherlock realized, before turning towards the window. There was nothing in the narrow, dark alley – no light, no movement. He frowned. There wasn't enough room for the shot to have come from the neighboring roof. He squinted, studying the windows in the adjoining building. After a minute, in which he struggled to block out the cabbie's moans, he finally spotted it: a small hole in the window immediately across from him.

He could see no one there.

Sherlock went back to the cabbie. There was more blood oozing out onto the floor. It seemed to be too much. He'd made good on his threat, but there were still things Sherlock needed to know.

"Who is it?" Sherlock asked. "Who's after John?"

The cabbie let out a wet chuckle and managed a small shake of his head. "Wrong," he gasped drawing in a ragged breath, "pill." He coughed and closed his eyes. Sherlock fought a wave of panic, stepping down hard on the killer's injured shoulder. The cabbie's eyes shot open and he let out a strangled cry.

"Name?" Sherlock demanded, knowing that he should be calling 9-9-9. It was his duty as a police officer to help, but the man had kidnapped him. Sort of. And had blatantly threatened John.

The cabbie gasped again, and Sherlock increased the pressure slightly. "Mor–" the cabbie started, coughing, "–iarty."

"Moriarty?" Sherlock repeated, lifting his foot and hearing the sigh of relief. The cabbie was still breathing when Sherlock left the room in search of a phone.

* * *

John got out of the cab three blocks from Bart's at a busy intersection with lots of nightlife. He knew it was a hotspot and if asked later his cabbie would find nothing unusual about dropping someone off there. John had ducked quickly into one of the restaurants and left a fake name on the wait list, before turning down a side street and breaking into a run.

He ran as fast as he could. He had a fairly good map of London in his head, and knew exactly where to turn. The phone's GPS signal had stopped moving while he was in the cab. A quick search had revealed the location, and John had mentally worked out how to get there without being seen. The attention would be on the more populated areas, not the alleys without building access.

He came to the back of the adjoining buildings and stared at them for a moment. There were no lights on in either that he could see so he'd have to guess – and then run like hell and make a lot of noise. This was not a killer who liked to draw attention to himself. Adding someone else into the mix would unbalance him.

He sat the laptop on the curb, took deep breath, and ran to the building to his right. The door was unlocked, which he tried not to find hopeful. He slid on the tiles, shouting Sherlock's name as he peered briefly through each window into the empty classrooms and labs beyond.

He was running so fast he almost missed it, a pale beam of light shining on the floor. John slid to a stop and threw open the door, mentally cursing himself for choosing the wrong building. If he'd gone to the left he'd have charged into the room with them. It would have been two against one.

He banged on the window and screamed Sherlock's name, knowing that neither sound would bridge the gap. It was too far. John squinted and peered into the other room. Sherlock was still alive and looked unharmed. The sense of reliefev made him grip the window frame against the shakiness in his legs.

The cabbie was older than John would have suspected. It seemed rather late in life to begin a crime spree, but perhaps there were other murders that they hadn't linked to him. And there was a gun, just sitting on the table. It seemed to not be an issue between the two men, and John found that confusing. Surely if it wasn't real Sherlock would just leave and call Lestrade – or just leave all together.. Sherlock had been with the killer, he'd be able to provide valuable evidence.

_The poison_, John thought, squinting again to get a better view of the room. _How does he administer the poison?_

He spotted the pills sitting on the table just as the cabbie reached for one and popped it into his mouth.

"What?" John said aloud as the cabbie pushed the other one towards Sherlock. Through the windows, John saw the look of doubt, the debate. Cursing, he withdrew the gun from his jacket, took a step back, aimed, and fired.

* * *

The paramedic kept putting the blanket over his shoulders and Sherlock kept pushing it off.

"We don't want you to go into shock, Mr. Holmes," the man said , to which Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

"I'm fine."

"Hell of a shot," he heard Lestrade say from across the street.

"Especially with a hand gun," Anderson added. They were both making a point of not looking at Sherlock, which was annoying. He wanted to answer their questions so that he could leave.

He scanned crowd again. He kept expecting John to suddenly appear. He imagined the doctor breathing quickly from the exertion of running and smiling euphorically at Sherlock's survival. He hadn't appeared yet, even though Lestrade had called him. He wanted John to get there so they could go, so that he could tell doctor about the mysterious Moriarty.

Nobody seemed to know anything, least of all him. There was no sign of the gunman, no evidence of anyone having been in the other room at all except for the bullet hole in the window.

A professional seemed to be the working assumption, especially as whoever it was had picked up the bullet casing.

"Lestrade." Sherlock turned at the sound of the familiar voice and smiled. But instead of stopping, John just glanced at him before walking right past.

"John," the DI said and the two men shook hands. Sherlock frowned as he turned his head to listen their conversation.

"Is this the guy?" John asked and Lestrade nodded.

"Seems so. He confessed everything to Sherlock. A stupid game with pills. They don't think he's going to make it."

"Shame," John said, looking around the scene. "He must have been watching us," he added. "He would hve to have been to pick up Sherlock at Bart's. He didn't stumble upon a police officer at random."

"Yeah," Lestrade agreed. "We're pulling the CCTV footage from around Bart's and from the streets around here. See if we can see anyone else."

"Really? That fast?" John asked and Sherlock thought there was something in his voice – concern or surprise.

"Shocking I know, but I pulled in a few favors and they're sending it over."

"Good," John replied. "Maybe you'll be able to figure out how he got Sherlock to go with him. You might even see the gunman."

"Oh, he got Sherlock with a gun. We found it up there," Lestrade gestured to the buildings. "Wasn't a real gun though. That's all we really know though. Sherlock told us the cabbie had confessed everything, but he was a little off when we got here. We're waiting for the final okay from the paramedics to question him. Get the rest of the details, find out what the hell happened. Anderson says the preliminary evidence shows that they were both standing and a bullet came from the next building. Through two windows and an alley. He was hit in the shoulder, probably dropped like a bag of bricks."

"Geez," John said sounding impressed. John gave a low whistle, sounding impressed. "Sniper rifle?" he asked.

"No. That's the best part. A hand gun. Who the hell can make that kind of shot with a handgun?"

John was quiet for a minute. "A military sniper. Ex-special forces, maybe. Do we have an ID on the pill guy yet? Maybe acquaintance of his?"

"Jeff Wells. We've got a team going through his flat now but we've still got to talk to Sherlock."

There was something in Lestrade's tone that Sherlock didn't like. An accusation hidden just beneath his words. The detective opened his mouth to announce he could hear them when John replied, his voice louder than before, almost as if he wanted Sherlock to hear.

"Well, he might have some PTSD elements. I saw it a lot in military personnel after a traumatic experience. He might not remember as much as you'd like – or anything at all for that matter."

Lestrade frowned but nodded. "Yeah, I've see that with a lot of victims, too. But he's a bloody police officer–"

"In Financial Crimes," John interjected. "He's brilliant at patterns and numbers but he's hardly your action officer."

"True," Lestrade nodded before turning back to look at the college buildings, shaking his head disbelievingly. "Hell of a shot."

* * *

John watched the cabbie fall, but that was it. He turned and ran again, exactly way he'd come. His feet pounded on the stairs but he wasn't concerned by the noise. He had to get out. He hadn't thought the plan through and that was stupid – ridiculously stupid. He had time, and worst case scenario he was protecting Sherlock. But he'd rather avoid all of that, so he had to run.

He skidded to a stop next to the laptop.

"Idiot," he said to himself, grabbing it. "Idiot, John. Think. Think!" He doubted the gunshot would have been heard – there seemed to be no one around – but certainly Sherlock would call for back up.

The CCTV. John avoided the cameras since the cab, but what about outside Bart's? He hadn't thought enough. "Stupid," he muttered tucking the laptop under his arm. He gasped in a breath, his legs suddenly feeling heavy.

He started to run again. It would take a while to get the CCTV. He could make some phone calls, pull some strings. He had to get rid of the gun first.

He reached the river in six blocks, colliding bodily with the railing. Without pausing, he slammed the computer against the metal rungs, hearing fracture of plastic, before he tossed it into the water. He dismantled his gun quickly, throwing the pieces as far as he could, emptying the magazine before finally tossing it and the bullets.

Done.

His lungs hurt from breathing so hard, but he had to get back to Bart's. He was going to have to take a cab, but he needed to look normal when he told the driver where he was going. He could walk a bit – not long, but just enough to calm down. He couldn't attract any attention at all.

* * *

"So," Lestrade began, coming to stand next to him. Sherlock looked across the street to where John was talking to Donovan. The SOCOs were bringing out bags of evidence now.

"He was waiting for you outside of Bart's," Lestrade continued and Sherlock nodded. "Where were you going exactly? Doctor Watson seemed pretty adamant that we let you go over the laptop. He has some faith in you. Did you find anything?"

John turned and their eyes locked. Even across the street, those sharp blue eyes made something click in Sherlock's brain. The pieces were falling into place quicker than he could process them, but one thing was suddenly and absolutely clear: John was wearing a different shirt.

Why was he wearing a different shirt?

"No," Sherlock managed, turning his attention from John back to Lestrade. The DI was focused on his little notebook, but didn't have his pen out. Maybe a technique to make the interviewee think that he wasn't paying attention, but Sherlock had no doubt Lestrade was listening to every word. "He hadn't touched anything in the suitcase."

"Hmm," Lestrade said. "And what exactly did he say to you?"

Sherlock retold the conversation from the car and the room, failing to mention that he'd realized the gun was fake, along with a number of other things, including all the information about John and Moriarty.

"I think that when he found out he was dying he decided to live out some sort of psychotic fantasy. When I told him that I wouldn't take the pill, he took one. Said I'd take it too or he'd die without us knowing anything."

Sherlock swallowed and Lestrade met his eyes. "And then he just fell over. I didn't know what happened at first," Sherlock swallowed again and let fake tears well in his eyes before blinking them away with false effort. He'd learned to do this with Mummy when he was a child. It had served him well when he wanted to get Mycroft into trouble. And he suspected Lestrade would be impressed if there was an internal struggle as well. He then took a deep breath and appeared to compose himself. "I've never seen someone shot before, Inspector. There was so much more blood than I imagined."

Lestrade stared at him for another moment before clearing his throat. A small smile, almost of admiration, appeared on the DI's face. "Yes, well. And you didn't see the shooter?"

"No," Sherlock answered, managing an emotional sigh. "I don't remember much. I thought I had to contact you, get your people here as fast as possible."

Lestrade nodded and put the notebook back in his pocket. "Okay, well that should be good enough for now. Dr. Watson has agreed to go with you to the hospital if you want, or to see you home if you think you're fit. I know where to find you if I have more questions."

Sherlock nodded, pulling the hideous orange blanket across his shoulders. "Home I think," he said, "and a cuppa."

"Yes, sounds good," Lestrade said as he reached over and patted Sherlock on the shoulder. "Good work, Sergeant. You handled yourself well and stayed cool under the pressure. You held it together when a lot of other men might have crumbled. And most importantly he won't be killing anyone else."

"Thank you, Inspector," Sherlock said as Lestrade walked away. When he was out of earshot Sherlock sighed and pushed the orange blanket off again. A moment later John appeared.

"What did you do with the gun?" Sherlock demanded, pushing himself to his feetl John looked around and a sly smile crossed his face.

"It's at the bottom of the Thames, along with the laptop. Poor Ms. Hooper is going to get the blame for that one. I grabbed a random one out of the lab and put it in the box. I asked her to pack up all the evidence. If they need it they'll quickly find out it's the wrong one and she'll have signed off on it. I doubt they'll need it though."

"Are you kidding?" Sherlock snapped, deliberately keeping his voice low. "Lestrade already mentioned it. He asked what, if anything–"

John held up a hand. "I talked to Anderson. There's a team already going through Wells' flat. There's ample evidence already. That's ignoring the fact that the man is-–"

"But," Sherlock interrupted. "He said something about you. Said somebody was after you. Someone named Moriarty. Do you know that name?"

John shook his head, looking confused, shaking his head, again. "What? No, I don't. What do you-–"

"He said there was somebody else. A bigger plan."

"Sherlock, he was insane."

"John," Sherlock put as much feeling into the name as possible, and the doctor paused.

"Okay," John said after a moment. "I'll see what I can find out. I'll ask around. But why would he be after me?"

Sherlock shook his head. He didn't know but it sent a pang of terror through his chest. John opened his mouth but pulled away quickly. Lestrade's voice came from the other side of the ambulance. Both men straightened and started to walk away.

They felt Lestrade watching them but didn't look back.

"Promise me," Sherlock said quietly and John nodded.

"I will. But not tonight. I probably just killed a man–"

"A horrible man," Sherlock interrupted. It was important that he point that out.

"I probably just killed a horrible man," John clarified. "I ran all over the city while doing it. I pulled this shirt out of a random OxFam donation bag so I wouldn't show up here dripping with sweat. I'm tired, starving, and ready to go home."

Sherlock was going to say something else but his stomach grumbled at the thought of food. He smiled as John held up the yellow tape, and they both stepped underneath.

"How about Chinese?" John asked, moving back into step next to Sherlock.

"Sounds perfect," said a voice behind them.

"Mycroft," Sherlock sighed, noticing his brother moving out of the shadows.

"Sadly, I think this is a meal for two," John said as he settled a hand on Sherlock's lower back. The sensation, even through his clothing and coat, shivered up Sherlock's spine. Their food might have to be takeaway.

"I assumed," Mycroft offered, looking Sherlock up and down. "I was saddened to hear about this from Doctor Watson and not from you. I trust that you're not injured?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock said as the pressure of John's fingers increased slightly.

"Good. I am grateful for that." Mycroft almost sounded sincere. "I have taken care of the video as you requested, Doctor Watson. And I will handle Lestrade."

"Thank you," John said and Mycroft shrugged.

"It is the least I can do as you've saved my little brother's life."

_Moriarty, _Sherlock thought. If anyone would know, Mycroft would. He was about to ask when John took a step towards him, pressing their bodies together. John seemed to radiate heat, and it momentarily distracted Sherlock. When John looked up and their eyes locked, Sherlock saw the warning. Not now. Not Mycroft. Sherlock sighed and relaxed against the new yet welcome weight beside him.

"Well, I will leave you two to it. Good evening," Mycroft said. As he stepped away, John's hand slid across Sherlock's lower back and around his waist.

"Are you ready to go home?" he asked.


	18. Resolutions

The plastic bag was heavy in Sherlock's hand. The order really should have been split up, but he'd stayed quiet as they bagged up the takeaway. He'd been quiet almost the whole way home. He and John had giggled while they waited on the curb for a taxi, the sounds of the crime scene behind them. The tension of the evening had dissipated in those few moments.

Lestrade's voice had reached them across the cool night as he yelled at Anderson, and John's blue eyes had shone as they'd met Sherlock's. The doctor had smiled and brushed his fingers along Sherlock's palm. The contact sizzled up Sherlock's arm and his breath caught. The promise of what would come when they got home had been agreed upon without words, and a combination of anticipation and nervousness had settled in Sherlock's belly.

Between there and their dinner the sensation had slipped away.

* * *

It began in the cab, when John's attention moved from Sherlock to the window, and the reflection that Sherlock saw in the cool glass showed a man whose gaze had turned inward. It wasn't really surprising; John had just shot someone, after all.

They made a quick stop at Bart's to pick up Sherlock's mobile. "I left mine here so if they traced the signal it wouldn't show me running through London," John explained half-heartedly. "I picked it up when I came back and then waited for the call from Lestrade."

John's attention to detail was astonishing. Certainly it would be a justifiable shooting. Sherlock's life had been in danger, or John could reasonably have assumed so. But it appeared John had done everything to avoid getting any of the attention. And he'd done it all very, very quickly.

Sherlock leaned against the door frame as John grabbed a small lockbox and tucked it under his arm. It must have been in the desk, and it must have contained the gun. Sherlock wondered momentarily why John had kept it. An illegal weapon seemed out of character for the doctor. But he didn't ask. He didn't think the question would be welcome.

Lestrade called again as they waited on the lift. The cabbie had died of hemorrhaging caused by blood thinners he'd been taking for his treatments. The news was hardly surprising, but John seemed to pull away even more, confirming Sherlock's idea that he had some regret over the shooting. John was a doctor, a healer - killing was against his nature.

John paid for the food, shaking off Sherlock's attempt to contribute. Normally, Sherlock would protest, but the doctor seemed disinclined to converse, much less argue about money.

John managed to keep half a step ahead of Sherlock, arms swinging and his posture stiff, almost soldier-like. Sherlock had never seen it before. This John was unfamiliar to him, and Sherlock found that exciting.

The desire to touch John was so strong Sherlock could feel it aching through his muscles, making his fingers flex. The memory of John in their living room hours before came back to him in a wave – the texture of John's skin, the sounds of his breaths, and the quiet moans of pain.

But this John, this quiet military John, was just a bit scary. Sherlock was afraid he'd be rejected.

The doctor unlocked the front door and held it open. Sherlock stepped past him and head up the stairs, John right behind him, both of them moving quickly just in case Mrs. Hudson decided she wanted to know what happened.

John closed the door behind them before moving past Sherlock to drop his coat on to the sofa. Sherlock watched him, anxious to see the expression on the doctor's face, but didn't get to fully process it before John planted a hand on Sherlock's chest and pushed him backwards.

The detective hit the door with a thump, pain twinging in his back.

"What was that?" John demand, his voice deep and quiet. "You were going to take the pill!"

Sherlock shook his head, suddenly unable to find his voice. His fingers tightened around the plastic bag as John took a step towards him, radiating anger like heat.

"You were," John spat. "I could see it on your face. The gun was fake, Sherlock. You obviously knew that, because it was just lying on the table! You could have just left, but you stayed! You actually thought about taking the pill!"

Sherlock shook his head again, his eyes focusing on John's lips. The doctor's bright pink tongue darted between them, leaving a trail of moisture on his bottom lip. Sherlock ached to taste it. "I– I was–" he swallowed. "I wanted to find out about Moriarty. I wanted to know who was threatening you."

"Me?" John asked, taking another step and pushing their bodies together. Sherlock let out a quiet moan and resisted the temptation to close his eyes, nodding instead, his heart pounding in his chest. "And what about the text messages taunting him or just leaving the lab? Why did you do that? For me?"

"Um," Sherlock began, losing his train of thought as John pushed a thigh between his. John's jeans made a rough sound against the wool of his trousers that shivered up Sherlock's spine as he spread his legs, sinking lower into John's thigh.

"Had to be a hero," John said, leaning forward. Sherlock could feel the doctor's exhalations brush against his lips. He could almost taste them. "Don't," John brushed his lips across Sherlock's, and the detective gasped, "do that again."

John's lips were soft and when his tongue darted out, Sherlock moaned, letting him in. The scent of John filled Sherlock's lungs and for a moment there was only this, only John.

Sherlock heard the sound of plastic as the bag dropped but didn't give it another thought. His hand was suddenly free, and he brought both of them up to cup John's face. The skin against his palms was rough with emerging whiskers. Long fingers curled into John's hair as Sherlock turned his head and deepened the kiss even more.

John groaned, pressing Sherlock harder against the door. The smaller body was perfect, and Sherlock wanted to wrap himself around John, encompass all of him.

John pulled back, putting a hand into Sherlock's chest to hold him in place. Sherlock opened his eyes to see a pink flush across the doctor's cheeks and his blue eyes wide and dilated.

"You scared the hell out of me," John said quietly, as his hands moved to push Sherlock's coat off his shoulders. The detective leaned forward, letting the material crumpled to the floor with a quiet thump. John glanced to the floor and Sherlock watched his lips curve with amusement. The food was covered by the soft wool of Sherlock's coat, but that didn't seem to concern John any more than it concerned Sherlock.

"I'm sorry," the detective managed, unable to catch his breath. John's small fingers had danced across his chest, thumbs brushing over sensitive nipples, before reaching the first of Sherlock's buttons. With the quiet sound of silk and a flash of cool air against his chest the button was undone.

John smiled, leaning forward. "More of this I think," he murmured before darting his tongue against the newly exposed skin. Sherlock groaned, letting his hands brush across John's shoulders.

The next button was undone, and John tasted him again. Sherlock closed his eyes, savoring each new sensation and jumping when a warm wet tongue slipped into his navel. When he reached Sherlock's belt, John pulled the rest of the shirt free of the trousers, undoing the last button and letting the material hang at Sherlock's sides.

"Very nice," the doctor whispered. Sherlock opened his eyes just in time to see John settle on his knees.

"Oh," he managed as John moved his hand up Sherlock's trouser clad thighs.

"What's this?" John asked, brushing his fingers over Sherlock's zip and palming his cock through the material.

"Jesus," Sherlock hissed, bucking forward. His heart was pounding against his ribs, and he opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling.

John chuckled, placing a kiss against Sherlock's stomach as his fingers started to work on the belt. "I've been dreaming about this," he said. "I think since I first met you."

The buckle came loose, the metal clanking as John turned his attention to the button and the zip. "And you're perfect," he continued. The words moved over Sherlock like a wave, washing over him but not quite penetrating. John was so present, so warm, so distracting. Sherlock pulled his eyes away from the ceiling to stare down his body. He had one hand clutched in John's hair and the other squeezing his good shoulder. The doctor seemed unaware of either point of contact.

"And then, then you got jealous, Sherlock, and it was wonderful." The material flapped open, revealing the top of Sherlock's boxers. John leaned forward placing a kiss against the elastic of the dark cotton material. His chin brushed Sherlock's straining cock and the detective's hips bucked forward again.

"Oh god," he said, but John continued as if nothing happened.

"Clara." Sherlock felt himself tense and John's hands squeezed his hips. The doctor looked up and Sherlock met his gaze. "Is married to my sister," he finished, a slow smile spreading across his face. "I belong to you, Sherlock Holmes." John's smile grew. "For as long as you'll have me."

John leaned forward again, his teeth nipping at the tender skin below Sherlock's bellybutton. Sherlock knew he should say something but could only let his head fall back against the wall. He relaxed again, trying to notice every reaction that John caused. He knew he should respond to such a profound declaration. He opened his mouth, but the words were lost as John's thumbs pushed the elastic of the boxers down.

A guttural exclamation escaped Sherlock's lips as John settled the pants half way down the detective's thighs. Sherlock wanted them off, but was vaguely aware that he'd have to move for that. His legs were spread too far and he'd have to let go of John. His grip tightened in John's soft hair and he knew he couldn't let go, even if he wanted to.

"Very nice," Sherlock heard, as little puffs of air bounced off him. He throbbed as the first drops of precum eased out of him. John hummed in delight.

"John," Sherlock said, his tongue dry and heavy as John tasted him.

"Very nice indeed."

Sherlock managed to nod, squeezing John's shoulder in encouragement. John chuckled again and a moment later Sherlock gasped, getting exactly what he'd wanted.

John was so hot around him, his tongue rough as it conformed along the underside. Sherlock thrust forward, his knees buckling as his foot slipped on the floor.

"Whoa," John said around him, hands pinning Sherlock's hips against the wall. The vibrations shot through the detective's groin and he grasped at John while trying to secure his footing. He managed to lock his knees, and John's grip on his hips loosened.

"Better," the doctor said pulling back enough to dance the tip of his tongue over Sherlock's slit.

The detective moaned, but managed to open his eyes. He watched the doctor's head move forward again, nose burying into Sherlock's dark curls as John took all of him.

The sight shot up Sherlock's spine. The doctor's eyes were closed, his jaw looking elongated as to accommodate Sherlock's length. There was a flash of desire followed by regret as Sherlock realized it was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen, and he wouldn't be able to control himself.

"Sorry," Sherlock mumbled as he closed his eyes, squeezing John's hair as he yanked his hips forward. The doctor groaned at the unexpected movement, but Sherlock whispered another quiet apology as he thrust again. He hit the back of John's throat and moaned, bucking harder.

John's hands tightened on his hips. The doctor held Sherlock against the door and the detective cried out, the urge to move too strong.

"John," he managed, squeezing the healthy shoulder. John felt wonderful, so warm and wet, and Sherlock couldn't hold back. It was too much. His groin tightened, and he whimpered feeling his balls rise.

"John," he gasped again, as the doctor hollowed his cheeks. Sherlock cried out, pressing back into the door, leveraging for more and trying to push John off in the same moment. It was too much and not enough, and as John released him with a quiet pop, Sherlock sank to the floor.

_Sister-in-law, _he thought as the world started to come back into focus. He was half on John's lap, the material gathered around his thighs keeping his hips at an awkward angle. Clara was John's sister-in-law. Sherlock let out a quiet chuckle as John pressed a kiss beside his ear.

"All right?" John asked, his voice heavy with arousal. Sherlock smiled, opening his eyes to see the pink hue still in John's cheeks. He wondered if it had made its way to the doctor's chest as well, and realized with a sense of excitement that he'd find out soon.

"Never better," he managed, leaning forward to steal a kiss. John's lips were tense with barely contained desperation. "Upstairs then?"

* * *

The air in the room was cool, but not uncomfortably so. Sherlock let his eyes drift closed and tried to focus on the sensation of John's fingers digging into the arch of his foot.

"Mmm," he hummed, stretching his head back until it brushed the wooden footboard.

He couldn't remember how they'd ended up this way. Everything since they'd walked in the front door was a bit of a hazy euphoric blur. It was a wonderful feeling.

They were lying opposite of each other on top of John's soft but crumpled duvet. The material was smooth against Sherlock's cheek as he shifted so he could stare up at John. The doctor's shoulders were propped on the headboard, his face relaxed as he concentrated on his fingers' movements.

Sherlock let out a quiet groan as thumbs pressed into his arch. John chuckled.

"Too much stress on your feet, Mr. Holmes. Regular massages would help with that."

Sherlock nodded, letting out another groan. He leaned his head back and sucked in a breath. "I imagine I could be convinced."

"Good," John said, leaning forward to place a soft kiss into Sherlock's arch before letting his foot drop. "Lots of mutual massaging then."

Sherlock smiled and let his eyes drift over John's scar, the bright red flesh a stark contrast to the rest of the pale skin. It would fade, Sherlock knew, lighten over time to a more natural color. But it would always be there, the mark that changed his life. _Their lives,_ Sherlock corrected himself, feeling a wave of gratitude followed by a pang of guilt.

John stretched and let out a long sigh. The sight stirred through Sherlock's body and the detective sat up, settling on his knees before lying down next to John, draping an arm over the doctor's waist.

"So," Sherlock started, rubbing his nose against John's shoulder. "What now?"

John hummed, sliding down and relaxing into the pillows. "That is the question, isn't it?" He planted a kiss into Sherlock's hair. "I don't know the answer. What do you want?"

_This, _Sherlock thought but stayed quiet, simply shrugging his shoulders.

"Lestrade seemed impressed," John said. "He'll probably offer you a position."

Sherlock nodded, but for some reason that idea didn't hold the same appeal it had just a few weeks ago. The hunger that had driven him for years had faded, suddenly satisfied.

"Isn't that what you've always wanted?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered quietly.

"But?" John inquired. Sherlock shrugged again.

John sighed, turning slightly into Sherlock. Sherlock closed his eyes as soft lips pressed into his forehead.

"Have you considered other options?" John asked after several quiet seconds.

Sherlock thought about it for a minute, and then shook his head. "Mycroft feels I should have followed him into…" He trailed off as John let out a chuckle.

"I can hardly see you in the foreign service," he said. Sherlock lifted his head and met John's eyes. "You'd be miserable." John reached up and brushed a curl from Sherlock's forehead.

"I was thinking more of your going into business for yourself."

Sherlock frowned. "Private detective? Seems a little cliché."

John laughed, the loud sound filling the room. Sherlock settled his head on John's shoulder and pushed his body against the doctor's.

"Well," John said, as his giggles subsided. "Well, you could always call it something more interesting. Perhaps the classic 'Private Inquiries', or label yourself as a 'Consulting Detective.' Separate yourself from the rest."

Sherlock nodded. It wasn't something he'd ever considered before, but the idea certainly had some merit. "I'll think about it," he said. "It will require more research. I'd have to look into financial planning. I'm hardly in a position to do it immediately. And I know nothing of the field. I'll have to make contacts."

John chuckled again. "You're always thorough. Do you ever just go with your gut? Make a guess?" John continued before Sherlock could answer, his lips brushing over Sherlock's forehead as he spoke. "I'm sure Mycroft can help with contacts, and if he's unwilling, I have my fair share, although probably not nearly as impressive as his. And," John pushed against Sherlock and the detective lifted off of John's shoulder. The doctor rolled over, putting them chest to chest, insinuating one of his thighs between the detective's legs, "while it makes no sense for me to take full financial responsibility for this endeavor, I can make you a deal. Along with providing my few contacts, I can and will assist on any cases that you take. Your brilliant research abilities and my observational skills will complement each other very well. We'll be a formidable team until you get established and don't need me anymore."

Sherlock smiled, letting his fingertips trace down John's spine. The doctor shivered, but never broke eye contact. Sherlock leaned in and stole a quick kiss then nodded before placing his forehead against John's. "I'll do my research," he promised. An amused smile crossed the doctor's face.

"Good, but later," John glanced over Sherlock's shoulder. "Sleep now, I think. You'll have the rest of the day to work." Sherlock turned towards the window to see a pale light starting to appear around the curtains. The sun was coming up. He turned back and settled deeper into his pillow. Sleep sounded wonderful, especially next to John's warm, naked body.

They managed to maneuver the duvet to cover themselves. John turned the bedside light off and let darkness envelope them before settling on his back again. Sherlock threw an arm and a leg over him, pinning him in place. Almost immediately exhaustion crept in, and Sherlock let sleep overtake him.


	19. The Collector

Jim Moriarty was in his desk chair facing the great expanse of his office windows. He stared, almost unaware, as the sun made its daily appearance on the horizon.

He let his mind drift over the plan he'd put into place. He was curious to see where he'd gone wrong. Surely he was partially to blame - John Watson was a genius, but he wouldn't have succeeded if Moriarty hadn't failed somewhere.

Watson was good, but not that good. He'd proven that by taking that ridiculous voyage to Afghanistan. Although, Moriarty had to admit, that ended rather ideally. Watson was at Bart's now, working with the police. It would be much easier to invite him to play if he was working with the police.

And Jim desperately wanted to play.

He stood, stretching slightly as stepped towards the board that hung above his sofa. _My masterpiece, _he thought as he turned on the staging lights hanging above it.

The newspaper clippings were arranged in chronological order, each one cut precisely and aligned perfectly. The journal articles, while also in chronological order, were not as neatly kept. The pages were varying sizes, and many were printed on poor quality paper. Jim found it frightfully annoying that so many journals only had online editions.

Where was the appreciation for the classics? He sighed and straightened the first of the pictures. He'd had many photos taken of the doctor over the years, ever since he'd first heard the name 'Doctor John Watson'.

He let his gaze drift over the newest ones, the ones with the annoying Yardie Watson was now keeping company with. This one - this tall, dark, and handsome one - might just be the pawn Jim had been waiting for.

He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and settled onto the soft leather of his couch. He leaned back, closing his eyes as he listened to the ringing on the other end of the line. He knew his call would be answered. His calls were always answered.

"Hello?" he heard, the voice filled with sleep and irritation. He didn't apologize for the hour. There was business to do, and it wouldn't wait.

"I have a task for you," he said. "And you'll need to use that infamous camera of yours."


End file.
